Dragon Age: Forgotten Origins
by EmbertoInferno
Summary: (On hold, currently being re-written) Nordja had heard the legends of the Grey Wardens, even from within the deep reaches of the Korcari. But when he is recruited by Duncan, his natural disdain for the lowlanders causes the world itself to change around him. The discontinued Barbarian Origin . . . OC/Morrigan, eventual Loghain/Leandra, many others . . .
1. The Unforgiving Korcari

_***DISCLAIMER: this is a product of Bioware, and pure fan fiction on my part. Once again NOT mine, just having a bit of fun with it. updates will maybe be weekly, maybe longer, as college will allow. Hope you enjoy.**_

**DRAGON AGE: FORGOTTEN ORIGINS . . .**

_For generations, your family has lived in the southernmost reaches of the Korcari wilds, living off the land, away from the harsh politics of Ferelden to the North. __When the Orlesians invaded, your father's father took the clan deep into the forest to escape detection, and there you have dwelt to this day. But dark rumours are afoot, scouts who know the forest intricately go missing on a large scale, and neighbouring clans disappear completely. What this new threat is, none can say . . ._

-oOo-

The wind blew a stubborn beat against the walls of the hut, sending frigid bursts of air snaking through his thin leather armour. Outside, the endless forests of pine did their best to hide away his village from the world, but now the world had forced itself onto the Korcari. A large man, dressed head to foot in robes of a subtle red, stared down at him from atop a carved throne. He knelt, as was proper.

'My son' he addressed him. 'Today, you will travel south, and find out the source of this evil that threatens our forest. I know I ask a lot of you, but if we do not know whom we face, we are defenceless. We might as well slit our throats now.'

Nordja looked up at his father. A strong man, usually displaying a harsh demeanour, but a secret fire played in his eyes. The greatest Thane in the Korcari wilds. But today, something was wrong. His father did not look as commanding as usual. Was there a trace of . . . fear?

'Yes father. I shall leave immediately.' he kept his eyes downcast.

His father stared down at his son. A young man now, a boy no longer, he had his father's giant frame, but his mother's silver tongue, Lady protect her. If he could ever get him to speak. his answers were always curt, andhe never strayed into deep conversations, not when he could help it when a nod and a smile would suffice. He would make a fine chief. The only problem his father saw was his unthinking brash streak, which often put him at odds with the rest of the clan. But he saw his son as a strong leader, above all else. He would make a good Thane. One the people would look up to

Provided he survived that long, of course. The Wilds were harsh enough with the dangers of wildlife, Chasind and the dreaded Witch. Flemeth, the Chasind called her, in hushed tones. Nordja's tribe had their own name for her, but they never uttered it, for fear that she might be summoned.

Nordja had laughed at such superstitions. There was no great Witch, just a few powerful lone spell-casters through the ages to keep the legend alive, he always claimed. 'Apostates' he remembered the lowlanders called them. Their religion hunted them, up north, which is why so many fled south into the Wilds. A dangerous place to live, eking out a living in these woods. And with the clans disappearing, made even more so. Everyone suspected the Orlesians were making the push south, and claims they were driven out long ago by the lowlanders were treated as Chasind wishful thinking. The only problem was that the unknown threat came from the south, not the north.

Nordja left his father to his thoughs and headed out of the hall. He gazed at the hearth, wondering if the mighty Dane, or his son, Hafter had ever been nervous before heading into danger. Surely even heroes felt fear knawing at the back of their minds?

And afraid he was. He had strayed from the village to hunt, every month or so when it was his turn, but to track unknown quarry through the Wilds? dangerous for even he most experienced hunters.

Nordja was so wrapped up in his worries he didn't notice as he left the main hut and the gates of the village long behind him. By the time he noticed his thoughts had carried him adrift, he found himself lost in the unforgiving Korcari. The trees crowded overhead, cutting away at his view. He struck out at what he guessed was south, his foosteps carrying him for many leagues, until the Lady began to devour the sun once more. With night closing in overhead, he began to feel panic welling up in his chest. He gripped his bow tightly, knuckles whitening and his senses on alert. Every footstep was an echo, telling the nearby predators where he was. It was maddening.

Hours passed, and the day died and gave into the night. The moon shone full overhead, and Nordja was starting to feel the first pangs of hunger. Rather than hunting in this darkness, he found a strand of Elfroot and began munching the petals, grimacing as he did so. The taste was non-existent. He found a boundary tree from another clan, carved with angular animal motifs, marking the edge of their territory. He didn't recocnize the clan, well off the map now. He pressed on, into unknown territories.

-oOo-

For three days, he travelled south, sleeping only when he had to, and taking whatever food he found. Starving, tired and grumpy, he found no evidence of the Orlesians, but in a trail of mass devastation a mile wide, he found many clumps of a curious fleshy sac growing, that burst in a spray of blood and gore when he poked one with his arrows. He learned to leave them after that.

Unless the flesh sacs were the invasion force, and people were fleeing from the smell, Nordja guessed they were a residue from something else. Demons, perhaps. Had another so-called Witch bartered their soul for fleeting power? The Veil was still strong as far as he could tell, however, he had had no visions, there were no whispers from nowhere, and his neck hair lay flat.

-oOo-

It wasn't hard to follow the devastation the unknown force had left. Thousands of footprints, sometimes small, sometimes large, but always thousands. The foulness in the air stuck to the back of his throat. His skin itched. His hunger intensified. He suspected he had caught a fever; the early stages were beginning to show. But his tribe was now far east him, and still he had not found his quarry.

By dawn of the fifth day, he found them. As he travelled along a ridge high in the southernmost mountains overlooking a great valley, he saw them for what they were. The vast horde was camped far down in a valley, making an unholy din as they trudged through. Though they were thought to be extinct, and no one had seen them in living memory, he knew them from the tales that Kaart, the storyteller occasionally told. Even from here, he could tell that a great will guided these monsters, to band toghether in a great horde. Guided them, urging them onwards, to devour the whole world.

Darkspawn. The name invited terror, and the threat was suddenly much more poignant. He had to get back, and warn the others. Now.

He sprinted through the forest, hurtling over rock and under tree. He paused only to regain his breath, eating on the run. The long path he took to avoid the horde took him along unfamiliar paths, but it wasn't long before he noticed the same, unfamiliar boundary tree. He estimated another day and a half at his pace, and he would be back. That was when he ran into a scouting party.

He survived, because the darkspawn were as shocked by his sudden appearance as he was of theirs. He quickly got over his shock, and drew his bow. He did a quick headcount, finding twelve, and put arrows in five of them before they reached him. A short creature, squat and beyond ugly, took a swipe at him. Without pausing, he dropped his bow, and brought his great sword to bear. He hacked down at the stunted creature, the weight of the blow caving its head in, festering gore exploded outwards, radiating blood. A pair of taller ones, more similar to men, as if mimicking their appearance, came charging in after, roaring in their bestial tongue, striking with ruthless efficiency. He parried their blows, and returned them in kind, hewing one open and crushing the others shoulder. Three more joined it, and soon their decapitated bodies were strewn about the forest floor. Only one remained, another squat, with a short bow aimed directly at him.

An arrow sped through the air and punched through his arm, its filth encrusted tip already spreading poison through his veins. He cried out in pain, and charged towards the vile little creature, screaming in hate. He swung a vicious backhand blow, severing the beast at the waist. Panting, he studied the carnage. The little clearing was drenched in blood, but most of it, thankfully, was not his. He gritted his teeth and pulled the arrow from his arm, its barbed head tearing out his flesh. Screaming in pain, he grabbed a healing poultice from his pack and jammed it into the wound, feeling the pain recede almost instantly, but not completley. It was apparently poisoned he thought, as the last of his strenght drained and he fell, the forest floor rising up to meet him.

-oOo-

He caught glimpses of a strange man carrying him over his shoulder. Weary from food shortage and his wound, he drifted back into the arms of the Lady.

-oOo-

He awoke in the great hall, on a hastily put up bedroll. A strange man was talking to his father. He steadily rose to his feet, and walked over. Now that his arm had been treated and he'd had a few hours to sleep off his exertions, he could take in his rescuer's features. He had tanned, swarthy skin, and long black hair tied back by a leather cord. A thick beard covered his jaw, and a roguish earring decorated his face. He spoke softly, with an accent that was unfamiliar to him. He supposed it was Orlesian. Typical. His armour was like nothing he had seen before, gleaming silverite, with robes covering his legs. He looked important. Apparently, he was.

'My son' his father called out. 'Come and meet, Duncan, was it?' he paused, checking he had pronunced it correctly. 'The head of the Grey Wardens in Ferelden.'

A Grey Warden. That at least explained his presence in the Wilds, rather than a desperate thief of bandit. Bandit king, he thought, appraising the armour once more.

'I'd like to thank you for coming to my aid, young man. The darkspawn you slew were hunting me, and I would have been hard pressed to slay a dozen' he spoke, with a genuinely warm smile.

'It was no problem, i'm sure this arm will heal' he said gesturing to his bandaged wound, eyes downcast. He _hated_ praise; it always made him sound more than he was worth.

'To tackle a band of darkspawn and triumph is no small feat. You would do well amongst our ranks.'

'Join the Wardens?' he asked incredulously. 'That would be a great honour indeed.'

His father stiffened. 'He'll be going nowhere, honour though that might be. His place is here, with his clan. The clan he will rule over in a few years' his father warned, casting his eyes over his son. 'He has travelled the Wilds, and come through victorious. He found the source of this threat. He saved your life' he said, directing that withering gaze onto Duncan now. 'He has proved his capability, and I'll not see him taken away from us. This is his home. He is going nowhere.'

'I could always use the right of conscription,' Duncan warned. 'But I will not force the issue.'

Nordja tried not to hide his disappointment. Trading the life of a Grey Warden for that of a Thane was difficult to digest, especially when it was so tantalizingly in reach. He pressed the issue; but to no avail, his father would not be budged this time. He took his leave, while Duncan and his father discussed the possibility of a 'Blight' further. Heading out of the doors he homed in on the cooking hut, like a Mabari on a rat, and took a leg of deer from the rafters, cooking it quickly and devouring the meal to sate his empty stomach. The venison tasted good to his famished stomach. When friends and relatives found him gnawing the bones, the offered their praise for his actions. They fell on deaf ears. He was not worthy of praise. He had found the source of the problem, and killed a scouting party. Simply following orders. Besides, all he could think about was the offer of joining the Wardens, and how it was now beyond his grasp. He didn't hate life here, but he loved to explore, and he wanted to see the world, not just the lands belonging to him one day. Once he was Thane, he would not be able to leave, the people would depend upon his actions, and he would be bound by his position. He washed down the meal with a jug of mead, and returned to the great hall, eager to press his case once more. He would not give up easily. He never did.

-oOo-

His pleas were rejected once more, shot down like a bird in flight by his father.

'For the last time, no. Your place is with your clan. See Duncan to the guest hut.' His father's gaze told him the matter was at an end.

He took the opportunity to learn as much as he could from Duncan, quizzing him on the Grey Wardens and the horde to the west. Duncan answered his questions dutifully, and he suspected the man wanted nothing more than to sleep, after carrying him the remainder of the way. Which reminded him.

'One last question?' he begged.

Duncan nodded his approval, albeit wearily, so he continued. 'How did you find the clan?'

Duncan chuckled. 'I had no idea, to be honest. Eventually I saw smoke, so I found them that way. It's all blind luck sometimes.'

Nordja nodded, and politely excused himself, going back to the main hut, to sleep by the embers of the dying fire.

-oOo-

Horns blasted apart the tranquillity of the night. Nordja woke with a start. The hounds were baying, the people of the clan screaming, and he could hear the crackle of fire, along with an unholy din and the clashing of swords. Grabbing his great sword and buckling on his leathers, he rushed outside, into the raging inferno.

The Darkspawn had found them. Hundreds swarmed through the village, a great ogre had smashed through the gate and was now tearing the huts down, crushing those trying to hide. The slaughter made him gag. These were his friends, his family, and all dead. Thane held the line with his warriors, but they were struggling against the horde. His father traded blows with a group of man-sized beasts, but he was bleeding from several deep gashes, and noticeably slowing down. He ran to his father's side, cutting down two of the monsters before they realized the threat. The remaining darkspawn concentrated on him, and suffered for it as his father hewed them open.

'Glad you could make it' grunted Thane. 'I was beginning to think you'll sleep through all this fun.'

'And miss out on a chance to show off? Never!' replied Nordja, with a desperate grin. For all their jokes, they would soon be overwhelmed, and to be torn apart by these monsters was not a fate he wished upon anyone, least of all himself.

As more surrounded them, death looked to be inevitable. Endless leering faces pressed on against their wall of blades, exploding in showers of blood, but occasionally one attack slipped through the cracks. Thane fell to his knees, exhausted, finished. Nordja grabbed his collar and dragged him away while the remaining warriors sold their lives dearly. Duncan removed himself from the fray, slicing open a squat nose to groin, its entrails spilling over the floor.

'Your village is lost, Thane, we must escape while we can!' he cried.

His father snorted. 'You always do get your way, don't you?' he grinned, teeth stained with bile. Nordja grinned back.

'He, he is right my son' he murmered, dribbling a bloody phlegm down his armour. 'Leave with him, and avenge us! He was coughing up blood now. 'Avenge us!'

Nordja cradled his father close and wept as he died. He screamed, and felt a part of his soul shatter within him. Screamed, until there was nothing but an all-consuming black fog of hate

'We must leave now, while we can!' Duncan urged. 'I cannot defeat them here! We must find the king's army, or be lost! Make a decision!'

He gazed once more at the fray. He had nothing left, now. Better to die with those he loved . . .

He was interrupted from his reverie by a slap from Duncan. 'Death or vengance, you cannot have both!' he cried.

He made his decision, for better or for worse.

Forcing himself to rise, Nordja ran. There would be no time for a burial. His father's corpse would be taken by these . . . things, and despoiled. He and Duncan ran, leaving the sounds of fighting and dying men behind them. They ran, as the last cries of pain were cut short. He wept, and continued running. His hatred burned inside him all the while. Gasping for breath, Duncan stopped. They rested beneath the pines, the burning village lost behind the endless pines of the Korcari.

'South then?' he asked, turning to Duncan.

'Aye, south to Ostagar, and war'

**_thanks peeps, hope you all enjoy it, and PLEASE REVIEW! next chapter uploaded shortly, if i can figure out how . . ._**


	2. King of Fools

**_*DISCLAIMER: this is a product of Bioware, and pure fan fiction on my part. Hope you enjoy._**

**_The major characters are coming into play now, please leave a review (yes, who can be bothered but please? Pretty please? Go on . . .) I will try and update every week, but fell behind with this one due to DA II. Don't even pretend you guys aren't shitting fireballs for that game as well (;_**

**_This chapter rook longer than usual, due to ALL THE DAMN DIALOUGE. You people have no idea how many times I replayed each conversation. I am so thoroughly sick of Cailan's voice._**

_We will be travelling north to the ruin of Ostagar, on the edges of the Korcari Wilds. The Tevinter Imperium built Ostagar long ago to prevent the Wilders from invading the northern lowlands. It's fitting we make our stand here, even if we face a different foe within the forest. The king's forces have clashed with the darkspawn several times, but here is where the bulk of the horde will show itself. There are only a few Grey Wardens within Ferelden, but all of us are here. This Blight must be stopped here and now. If it spreads to the north, Ferelden will fall . . ._

-oOo-

Nordja looked up at the great ruin of Ostagar. The ancient blocks of whitewashed stone still gleamed in the sunlight, despite the weeds and the moss growing over everything. He had heard legends of this fortress when he was a child. Built by the lowlanders to keep the Chasind in the forest. In reality, nobody had manned it in centuries, but it still had an air of majesty to it. Nordja felt his heart skip a beat. He could look past the ruin, and see the power of this place. To his right, the tower of Ishal rose high into the clouds, like a spear into the heavens. He could've wept.

'Ho there, Duncan!' called out a man in elaborate, gleaming gold armour. Blond hair, soft features, easy smile. A lowlander fop. If he hadn't just spoken, giving away his accent, Nordja would have pegged him as Orlesian. On the journey north, Duncan had explained to him that a 'King Maric' had driven them out thirty years ago, but apparently their culture had a lasting impact. Pity.

'King Cailan? I didn't expect a-a' Duncan stuttered, taken aback.

'A royal welcome?' the king finished his sentence for him, grasping Duncan's hand and grinning like an enthusiastic child.

Not a bad comparison, thought Nordja.

'I was beginning to worry you'd miss all the fun!' he continued. Nordja remembered something along those lines, in his father's last minutes. He pushed the memory aside.

'Not if I could help it, your Majesty' Duncan replied, gaining some composure.

'Then I'll have the mighty Duncan at my side in battle after all! Glorious!' he announced, turning to the side, facing his guards like the Sun God.

By the Lady, was he posing? Now Duncan was joining in. Nordja resisted the urge to vomit. Surely this man was not in charge?

'The other Wardens told me you've found a promising new recruit; I take it this is he?'

_Oh bugger_ thought Nordja. He stepped forward, and tried not to think of all the scathing remarks he might slip past this fool. He grinned. Duncan saw the warning sign.

'Allow me to introduce you, your Majesty' Duncan intervened.

'No need to be so formal, Duncan. We'll be shedding blood together, after all. Ho there, friend! Might I know your name?' he asked, with the same easy grin he refused to drop. Sickening.

'Nordja, Majesty' he grunted, just avoiding eye contact. He decided to drop the snark when he saw Duncan glaring at him over the king's shoulder.

'Pleased to meet you! The Grey Wardens are desperate to bolster their numbers, and I, for one, am glad to help them.' The king said, fawning over the Wardens. Duncan looked embarrassed. The king's guard had their faces hidden in their helms, but they didn't say anything. They must be used to it.

'I understand Duncan found you in the Wilds! What was it like growing up there?' he continued, oblivious to the pained expression on Duncan's face hovering behind him.

'It was difficult, at least before the darkspawn attacked my clan, and killed my father' he spoke straight-faced. 'Now there is nothing.'

The fool king looked stricken, having walked right into Nordja's trap, and stammered his reply; 'All I can suggest is that you vent your grief against the darkspawn for the time being.'

'I intend to, Majesty' Nordja replied, contemplating the bloody slaughter. _Oh yes_, he thought_. There will be blood._

'I'm sorry to cut this short, but I should return to my tent. Loghain waits eagerly to bore me with his strategies.' Cailan spoke now to Duncan, giving him a conspiratorial wink.

Nordja resisted the urge to gag. The king had ruined Ostagar for him. _Bastard._

'Your uncle sends his greetings and reminds you that Redcliffe forces could be here in less than a week' Duncan cut in, trying to remind the king subtly that this was, y'know, war. Nordja wasn't surprised to see this plea fall on deaf ears.

'Ha! Eamon just wants in on the glory. We've won three battles against these monsters and tomorrow should be no different!' he exclaimed. He seemed ready to burst in excitement.

Nordja couldn't resist a dig anymore.

'You sound very confident of that,' he interrupted_. It's almost as if you care more for your legend than your country_

'Overconfident, some would say. Right, Duncan?' King Cailan laughed.

Damn. Interrupted again.

'Your Majesty, I'm not certain the Blight can be ended quite as... quickly as you might wish' Duncan spoke, soft as ever.

'I'm not even sure this is a true Blight. There are plenty of darkspawn on the field, but alas, we've seen no sign of an Archdemon.' He was pouting now. It was sickening.

'Disappointed, you Majesty?' Duncan asked.

'I'd hoped for a war like in the tales! A king riding with the fabled Grey Wardens against a tainted god! But I suppose this will have to do. I must go before Loghain sends out a search party. Farewell, Grey Wardens!' With that he turned and left them.

_Was he leaving? He was!_ Nordja tried to keep his face blank but a grin lit him up like a bonfire. May he never meet that man again. Death first.

Duncan turned to him; 'what the king said is true, they have won several battles here.'

'Yet you don't sound very reassured' he pointed out

Duncan gestured at him to keep walking, and explained 'Despite the victories so far, the darkspawn horde grows larger with each passing day. By now, they look to outnumber us. I know there is an Archdemon behind this. But I cannot ask the king to act solely on my feeling.'

_Lovely. Our fates in the hands of that man-child._ Nordja looked at Duncan.

'You could if he were not such a fool' he spat.

'You must not speak of the king so. He is... over-eager, perhaps, but he is also one of the few Grey Warden allies' Duncan retorted, sternly for once. 'Our numbers in Ferelden are too few. We must do what we can and look to Teyrn Loghain to make up the difference.'

_Loghain, Loghain . . . ah yes, Duncan mentioned him before; he had led Maric's armies against the Orlesians. And Cailan seemed to be running away from him, which could only be considered a good thing. And he had the majority of the army._ Nordja liked him more and more.

'To that end, we should proceed with the Joining ritual without delay' spoke Duncan, bringing him out of his reverie.

'A hot meal might be nice, first' said Nordja. He'd been living off of roots and berries since his clan perished. The Korcari was an unforgiving mistress.

'I agree! We have until nightfall to begin the ritual. Every recruit must go through a secret ritual we call the Joining in order to become a Grey Warden.' He paused, studying Nordja's face intently. 'The ritual is brief, but some preparation is required. We must begin soon.'

'Why is this ritual so secret?' Nordja asked. Duncan's grave tone had piqued his curiosity.

'The Joining is dangerous. I cannot speak more of it except to say that you will learn all in good time. Until then, you must trust what is done is necessary.'

'Wonderful. Let's get this over with, then.' He was thoroughly tired of this place already.

'Feel free to explore the camp here as you wish. All I ask is that you do not leave it for the time being. There is another Grey Warden in the camp by the name of Alistair. When you are ready, seek him out and tell him it's time to summon the other recruits.'

Nordja nodded, ready to carry out the orders at a run.

'Until then, I have business I must attend to. You may find me at the Grey Warden tent on the other side of this bridge, should you need to.'

And then he turned and left, leaving Nordja standing on the great bridge. He turned and gazed at the view. _Stunning._

He crossed the bridge and looked upon the king's camp. A stunning array of brightly coloured tents, gaudy as hell.

_Lowlanders_ he thought, contemptuously.

-oOo-

He decided to try to relieve the king of a few trinkets. It was only fair; the man's company had been horrendous. Unfortunately he was stopped by a guard, and turned around. He learned that the tent opposite was that of the Teyrn. He was stopped by a guard once again. These lowlanders had odd ideas concerning their lords. A thane would have greeted everyone who approached, as was custom. The lowlanders simply had abysmal manners, it seemed. And they called _him_ barbarian.

Nevertheless, he could not in good faith leave without making sure that someone in charge knew what they were doing, so he requested an audience. It was granted.

The man that walked out of the tent was everything he was hoping for. Not a painted fop like the king, not a well meaning but weak man like Duncan. This was a man Nordja could happily put his faith in. His tired eyes spoke of many years fighting, and his stature was not bent by his years. Nordja would have pegged him as late thirties, even though he knew the man was well into his fifties.

'Yes, what is it? Ah, you are Duncan's new Grey Warden I assume?' His voice was like gravel, his gaze defiant. He would have made an excellent thane.

'Not yet, Teyrn, for now I am Clayne without clan' he replied.

'Nevertheless, you impressed his majesty; he could not contain his excitement over your arrival.' The Teyrn seemed bored. Nordja would be fed up of listening to Cailan prattle on about the Wardens too, day in, day out. Loghain had his sympathies.

'Cailan's fascination with the Wardens goes beyond the ordinary. Are you aware his father brought your order back to Ferelden?'

'No, Teyrn. The clans in the Korcari still think the Orlesians rule the lowlands. I am told I have you to thank for driving the bastards out?'

He grinned. 'I worked hard for six long years getting those bastards back across the border. But it wasn't just me. Maric was the force that kept us all together. Without him, I would have been just another poacher.'

Humble. Strong. Unyielding. Why was this man not king? He would be a much better choice, surely?

'Now I must return to my task. Pray that our king proves amenable to wisdom, if you're the praying sort.'

Now it was Nordja's turn to grin. 'There aren't enough Gods in the heavens!'

Loghain snorted. 'He is Maric's son, and the leader of my beloved Ferelden. And a very young man, as I try to remind myself. As should you.'

'I'll take my leave of you, Teyrn. Good luck with your battle.' Nordja bowed and left, as the Teyrns iron-hard eyes bored into him.

-oOo-

He wandered around the camp, trying to integrate into lowlander society as painlessly as possible. It did not go well.

After coming to blows with two soldiers after getting into an argument with them over whose Gods were real. Lowlanders where touchy with religion, it seemed. When they realised he worshipped Korth the Mountain Father and the Lady of the Skies, they had drawn swords, screaming 'Heathen!' and tried to arrest him on the spot. He didn't have time to draw his sword, so he simply grabbed their helmets and slammed them against each other, knocking them both out. He strolled away, whistling merrily.

Trying to keep a slightly lower profile, he surveyed the Wilds beneath him. These were the outskirts of the Korcari, the edge of his home. If he should die in the battle, he had asked Duncan to scatter his ashes within its boundaries. He sighed. Time to find Alistair.

-oOo-

He found him in an argument with a mage. Content to find out what sort of man he was dealing with, he studied his replies carefully.

From what he gathered, the mage was intentionally causing stress over a message Alistair had been sent to deliver. Another Chantry victim. He would be working with this one though, so he kept his mouth shut. The mage was leaving, and Alistair waltzed up, the same easy smile on his face that Cailan had worn. He had none of the smugness, however.

'Y'know, one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together'

Nordja shook his head. Weird.

'Wait, we haven't met, have we? I don't suppose you happen to be another mage?'

'No, worse that that' he replied with a grin.

'Ah yes, you must be the Chasind that Duncan recruited, it's a pleasure to meet you' he grinned, and then paused, looking on in horror as Nordja growled at him.

'Chasind? Chasind?' He spat the word 'Never, _never_ call me that again,' He fell back into his normal tone; 'and we'll get along just fine.'

'M-my apologies' he stammered. 'But I thought he recruited you in the Korcari Wilds?'

'He did. I am a Clayne tribesman. The Chasind are less than dogs. They are rats' he seethed inwardly at the accusation. He paused, lowered his head and sighed. 'Tribesman no more, the darkspawn overran my clan and slaughtered them all. Had Duncan not pulled me away, I would have died there. I . . . I apologise. It was an innocent mistake to make, my reaction was cruel. Still sore over the loss of my father.' He smiled sheepishly. 'Do you forgive me?'

'Its fine, I know what its like to lose a family' his eyes took on a faraway quality. 'shall we collect the others then?' he said, straightening up.

Nordja nodded his approval, and they set off.

-oOo-

Daveth struck him as a Chasind; he had the look of a thief and a liar. Which he freely admitted to. Despite his roots, he seemed more down to earth than anybody Nordja had met so far.

Ser Jory was . . . a mistake on Duncan's part. Though he professed to have skill with a blade, he had the look of a cornered rabbit. He would not last long_. Still, _thought Nordja_, he seems a decent enough man. Just not fit to fight. _

They returned to Duncan's fire, to receive their orders. Daveth thought they would be entering the Wilds, to Nordja's approval. Jory blanched at the thought. Alistair refused to give hints. He was Duncan's man, loyal to the core, it seemed.

They gathered round the fire, and Duncan relayed their orders.

'You found Alistair did you? Good. I'll assume you are ready to begin preparations. Assuming of course, that you're quite finished riling up mages, Alistair?'

'What can I say?' he replied. 'The revered mother ambushed me. The way she wields guilt, they should stick her in the army.'

Duncan berated him, and Alistair apologised.

'Now then' he said, turning to the recruits; 'since you are all here, we can begin. You four will be heading into the Korcari Wilds to perform two tasks. The first of which, is to obtain three vials of darkspawn blood, one for each recruit.'

'What do we need the blood for?' Jory asked, face paling.

'For the joining itself' was the reply. 'I'll explain more once you've returned.

'And what's the second task?' asked Nordja.

'There was once a Grey Warden archive in the Wilds, abandoned long ago when we could no longer afford to maintain such remote outposts. It has recently come to our attention that some scrolls were left behind, magically sealed to protect them. Alistair, I want you to retrieve these scrolls if you can.'

Alistair nodded.

'Find the three vials and the scrolls, got it' said Nordja, stepping back. 'We'll go right away.'

He was eager to go back into the forest. He missed it, even after only a few hours.

Duncan nodded. 'Watch over your charges, Alistair. Return quickly, and safely.'

'We will' he replied.

'Then may the Maker watch over you. I shall see you when you return.'

'Korth guide our steps' Nordja added.

With that, he set off back into the Wilds, his home. And home to many things besides him.

_**special thanks to Arsinoe de Blassenville, who helped me get past the error message. that evil, evil error message.**_


	3. Understanding Darkspawn

_***DISCLAIMER: this is a product of Bioware, and pure fan fiction on my part. Once again NOT mine, just having a bit of fun with it. updates will maybe be weekly, maybe longer, as college will allow. Hope you enjoy.**_

The trip _into_ the Wilds was uneventful, to say the least. Nordja took point, leading the others along trails they would never have noticed, skirting the obvious path for the hidden ones. There was something wrong with this part of the Wilds. He didn't need to be a Grey Warden to sense the Darkspawn where everywhere. Eventually, the path opened up and they saw beneath them a wide valley, overran with marsh ponds and crumbling Tevinter outposts. The pines hid their view of any other details.

Nordja grew uneasy. The birds had stopped singing, the animals had retreated from sight, and even the wind seemed to hush. His companions prattled on, oblivious, but he knew something bad was coming. A raven cawed, nearly causing him to jump out of his skin. He drew the sign of the mountain over his chest.

'Korth, guide this son . . .' he intoned.

'Guide his blade,

Hold his heart.

Bring him victory against his foes' he prayed.

He had the feeling, _no_, he_ knew_ he was being watched. Wary of the unseen danger, he didn't notice the literal one. That's right about when he walked straight into the wolf pack.

These were large beasts, even for their kind, and aggressive too. With a dread howl, they came barrelling up the path towards the four warriors.

Jory looked panicked, but drew his sword regardless. Daveth retreated back up the hill, notching an arrow to his bowstring. Alistair hefted his shield and braced for impact as the forerunners threw themselves against him, only to be broken like water on rock. And Nordja? Nordja threw himself into the fray, hacking and cleaving with wild abandon.

Days of quiet reflection had drained him of all worldly fear. With the deaths of his clan weighing upon his mind, he no longer cared for self preservation. That was for someone with something to live for. Either he would die here, or in the great battle soon to follow. He accepted death, and dealt it out in frightening quantities. Even Alistair, a fully-fledged Warden, seemed put off by this show of fury.

The last wolf sunk to the ground, whining pitifully, obviously in agony. He eased the poor beasts passing, then stood, surveying the ruin he had created. Numerous carcasses lay scattered upon the ground, blood soaking into the soil.

'Should we get moving?' asked Jory.

'Not yet' replied Nordja. _Waste not_

He knelt down by the nearest carcass, and started to skin it.

-oOo-

They continued on, blood dripping from their packs, stuffed with fur. It was a cardinal sin of the forest to waste a kill. After a deer hunt, everything must be used, or Kiveal, goddess of the hunt would curse the clan until the next full moon. Meat was stored, bones and antlers were crafted into knives and decorations, the hide adorned the walls and hooves were melted into glue. Wolf claws made good necklaces. He patted his pocket, feeling the macabre trophies within. Jory hadn't approved, and had refused to participate, standing guard and casting nervous glances around the clearing. Daveth had known what to do, but he occasionally botched the job, lessening the value of his skins. Alistair had seemed to enjoy himself after his initial scepticism, enthusiasm taking the place of skill. However, with a bit of quiet guidance from Nordja he had soon gotten the hang of it.

They continued on, coming to a smashed caravan, littered with the bodies of the dead. One man still clung feebly to life. Nordja and Alistair patched him up and sent him on his way, while Jory gagged over the smell of blood. _Really _Nordja thought._ What is he doing here?_

'A whole patrol ambushed by darkspawn!' cried Jory. 'This is too dangerous, we should leave, lest the same fate befall us!'

'Don't worry' spoke Alistair, softly. 'As a Grey Warden, I can sense when darkspawn approach. We wont be ambushed like these poor slobs'

'You see, Ser knight? We might die, but we'll be warned about it first!' Daveth chimed in.

They left the ruin of the ambush behind them, while Jory muttered continually under his breath, mostly about 'not having signed up for this.'

They came upon two ridges overlooking a pathway. A hollow log served as a bridge. The aged bark was damp, turning a mouldy green. Three corpses hung suspended from the log, hands bound behind their backs. Unfortunate soldiers who hadn't the good graces to die quickly in battle. The most interesting thing about the scene though were three squats upon the right-most ridge, aiming short bows, as two bigs ran charging at him.

Daveth watched with disgust as Jory hid himself behind Alistair's shield, fighting only when his foe was distracted, never becoming more than a nuisance.

Nordja cut down the first big and parried a blow from the second, before repaying with interest, slicing open the beasts forearm. The ramshackle armour gave easily under his sword, and the creature bellowed in pain, before attacking once more. It caught an arrow intended for him and went down for good. Evidently the squats were poor shots.

He looked up at the ridge to see Alistair cut down the last squat, having already slaughtered one. Daveth had turned the second into a new quiver. He watched Jory cower behind the Warden, and spat, sharing a glare with Daveth.

As they filled their vials with blood, Daveth stormed towards Jory, seething.

'By the Maker, what the hell do you think you're playing at?' he shouted. 'You squeal like a maiden at the first sign of trouble, you try and escape your duty, and now you refuse to fight? Why are you even here? Go home, lest you infect the rest of us with your cowardice!'

'I was selected by Duncan, for winning a tourney!' he defended, looking to Nordja and Alistair for support. If the looks they gave him were any indication, they were also less than impressed. 'And none of this was told to me, if I'd known, I _never_ would have left my wife. She has a child on the way, by the Maker!'

Nordja grasped his shoulder. 'Life is hard, cruel and unexpected. But _you_ are _here_ now, and we _need_ you to contribute' he said, gently stressing the words. 'Guard Alistair's flank from now on' he suggested, giving him a rare smile.

'I know its hard at first' said Alistair, trying to be sympathetic. 'But you really need to start putting in more of an effort.'

'I-I'm sorry' he mumbled. 'I will try harder.'

'I'll believe that when I see it' said Daveth, turning away in disgust.

-oOo-

To his credit, after Nordja's talk, Jory showed he was indeed capable of bravery, protecting Alistair's flank more than once when the two were surrounded at a large campsite Nordja had led them to. The path leading forwards had smelt like a trap to him, but perhaps he was simply paranoid.

_Nope, trap!_ He thought grimly, as the darkspawn charged. He, Alistair and Jory were soon surrounded, while Daveth shot down the stragglers. They formed a circle of steel, repelling attacks and dealing them out in kind. Tall or squat, none could land a blow against them. They were in their element. They were death.

As the last darkspawn was impaled on Alistair's long sword, giving a last, hateful scream, Nordja turned away from the carnage to inspect the camp. There wasn't anything of great value.

He turned to leave, but noticed the corner of a small, enamelled box poking out from under the earth near the fire-pit. He dug it out, and enclosed was a note with instructions. They showed the hidden paths of the Chasind, supposedly leading to a cache of their own. The other part of the note was a plea to deliver the box to a woman named Jetta in someplace called Redcliffe. He could at least attempt it, if he survived. It fit snugly in-between the wolf hides.

-oOo-

At one point he thought Daveth had stopped to pick flowers, but apparently they were needed to cure Mabari hounds of the darkspawn taint.

'From the blood they ingest in combat?' Nordja asked. Daveth nodded.

'Does this mean Mabari can become Grey Wardens?' he asked, turning to face Alistair.

'They obviously don't go through the Joining' he replied, 'but they do develop an immunity to the taint. I'm not too sure on the details to be specific; you'd have to ask Duncan.'

'I'll do that' he replied, thoughtful.

-oOo-

The Chasind trail signs were ridiculously easy to follow. They found the body of the box's former owner on the curving path there. It then doubled back upon itself, leading them to a makeshift natural bridge composed of decaying bark and soaked moss.

'I hate to keep complaining, but is that wise?' he asked Nordja, pointing to Daveth, who had taken a few tentative steps across.

'If you don't want to cross, don't expect a share in the treasure' Daveth casually replied.

Alistair chimed in; 'Come on Daveth, we have the blood, we should focus on the treaties now. Plus that thing looks unsteady.'

'See you ladies later' said Nordja, smirking as he threw caution to the wind, sprinting across the damn thing, almost knocking Daveth over, feet finding sturdy branches with ease. He had _lived_ for this kind of terrain. For a few fleeting seconds, he felt home.

He was a tad surprised when another wolf leapt at him from the bushes. Quite shocking, really. It upset his balance, knocking him into the stagnant water. He clawed for the surface, latching onto a log before the weight of his armour dragged him down.

A snarling face met his, bestial, matted fur. He clocked it on the nose, causing it to yelp in surprise. A member of the pack was soon able to replace him, clawing at Nordja's arm, eliciting a yelp of his own. He grabbed the scruff by its neck and pulled it into the water.

He dragged himself from the mire, slamming his bulk into the next wolf. They toppled onto the logs, Nordja recovering quicker, stabbing through the ribcage with a simple carving knife he always carried. The beast howled in pain, before a second stab cut it short.

He rose to his feet, searching his shoulder for the familiar pommel, finding nothing. He glanced back at the mire, dawning comprehension giving was to horror as he realised he'd lost his blade in the cloudy waters.

He brandished his knife, crouching low, feral. He snarled, acting for all the world like a rival alpha male. His gambit worked, the rest of the pack cast nervous glances at the largest, who wasted no time attacking the challenger. As the great wolf sprang forward on powerful haunches, Nordja's lightning fast reflexes allowed his right hand to shoot out and catch the beast by the throat, bringing its flight short of the intended target. With the wolf now at his mercy, he slashed at the stomach, spilling entrails over the already damp ground. Daveth used the time to shoot down the remaining wolves, while Alistair looked on anxiously, and Jory, predictably, panicked.

-oOo-

Nordja and Daveth stood before the chest, flanked by two statues of Tevinter origin. They gave him an uneasy feeling.

'I don't suppose you're any good with locks?' he asked.

Daveth shook his head. 'No, but luckily, the missionary was kind enough to provide the key' he grinned, whipping out the key like a con revealing his ace. _Which he completely was_.

'Alistair drew the line at looting the humans' Nordja frowned. 'But he's not here I suppose' he finished, returning the grin.

They opened the chest, and, as if his prayer was answered, inside was a long, thin sword, that looked Chasind in make. It was perfectly balanced, and rather light. Perfect.

'That was lucky' said Daveth, passing him the sword. 'The Maker must bloody love you.'

'The Lady protects her own' he mumbled, appraising the blade. It had a few notches that would need attention before they caused a crack.

Daveth took the remaining contents, and they made their way back across the logs. Dripping wet, he made sure to give Alistair a big hug, and Jory too. Daveth was too fast for him.

'Where's your sword?' asked Jory, eyeing his new blade.

He pointed to the mire. 'In there somewhere. Just head down until you reach the bottom' he grinned, wet hair glued to his face, droplets running into his eyes.

'Just remember to tie rocks to your feet first' called Daveth from up ahead.

Jory frowned. Nordja and Alistair sighed. It would boil into a fight soon, and then hopefully resolve itself. They approached a bridge, to find something waiting for them.

It looked vaguely like one of the taller darkspawn, but its spine was arched, its head too large and it had long talons instead of the usual stubby claws. It was also readying a fireball, so he remembered to dodge while adding the mage-spawn to his mental encyclopaedia of things that wanted to kill him.

The fireball missed, but he was struck by a spell that blasted his mind, causing too much blood to rush to his head, collapsing on the floor in a heap and staring up at clouds. _Ooh, fluffy_.

This is the moment where Alistair shined. Radiating energy, he sprang forward, his mere presence causing the mage-spawn's unholy abilities to dry up. It had a moment of sheer terror before he struck the beast down. As it gurgled its last, Nordja's head cleared, and he sprang to his feet, rushing to catch up with the others. Jory was holding his own against the left flank attackers, while Alistair fought the others on the right, where the fighting was thickest. Nordja joined him, cutting down two squats and tackling the remaining darkspawn from their flank. Blood decorated their armour and the surrounding barricades.

'Well recruits' said Alistair, turning his grin onto them. 'That was our first skirmish, and everyone's still alive. Welcome to the rest of your lives!'

He turned to Nordja. 'How's your head?' he asked.

Shamed that he had been brought low so easily, Nordja apologised, and muttered a quick 'fine' before leading them to the trail's true end, kicking each log until he found a hollow one. Reaching in, he brought out a helmet similar to one his father used to wear, which he tossed aside. Now was not the time to get choked up on memories. He brought out some filthy robes, a giant mace, and a fine Chasind longbow he passed to Daveth.

A twig cracked, and they turned round to find a group of squats sneaking up on them. The jig was up, and they were dispatched quickly.

'I thought Grey Wardens could sense the darkspawn?' asked Nordja.

'Sometimes they can go beyond our sensing abilities' shrugged Alistair sheepishly.

'Clever little blighters' cursed Daveth.

They made their way up a hill, overlooking the marsh they had spent the afternoon traversing. From this vantage, the path seemed so clear to Nordja. While he tried to figure out the quickest return route, Daveth knelt by a cairn and sprinkled ashes he had looted from a corpse by the bridge.

'What are you doing?' asked Alistair, feeling the familiar tugs of eldritch energy being summoned.

He had no chance to answer, as a collection of dirt and buried rags took form and began to claw out at them. Alistair smashed his shield into it, knocking it over, as Nordja struck the killing blow, dissolving the rags into a loose pile, magic already failing.

'Care to explain that?' asked Alistair, rounding on Daveth.

'On of the stiffs had a note that said there was treasure to be found if you sprinkled a few ashes on the rocks' he explained, visibly shaken. 'I didn't know it would summon a blindin' demon, Andraste preserve us.'

'You looted the fallen?' Alistair asked incredulously, now looking suitably livid. 'Wolves, darkspawn, blank pass. Soldiers? No. you defied a direct order!' he yelled, quite frustrated.

'Leave him, this job calls for us to bend the rules. We're not called White Wardens' Nordja interrupted, sparing Daveth a tongue lashing from Alistair. 'And in future, just do as you're bloody told' he said, exasperated.

'Back in line, then' said Alistair, already back to his easy going self.

-oOo-

When they approached the Warden outpost, they found it overrun with darkspawn, and almost all of them of the big variety. He charged into the fray, squaring off against their 'Alpha' as Duncan had explained, identifiable by the helm. Its minions joined the combat, and Nordja found himself beset on all sides. Parrying wildly, he drew great figure-eights with his new blade, turning others aside. The Alpha made to charge, and knock him flying. He should dodge the attack. Maybe leap to the side, or take the brunt of the blow and try to remain standing. Anywhere but into the attack. _Do not_ jump into the attack.

He leapt into the attack. The Alpha was stunned, momentarily, but that was all he needed to win. Smashing his elbow into his foe's chest, he knocked the 'spawn to the floor, severing it's head as it tried to rise with a vicious backhand blow. The remaining darkspawn wavered, and he cut them down as they hesitated. The slaughter was almost blissful. Hateful as he was to admit it, venting rage against these monsters was a useful bit of advice. _Damn Cailan. Damn him. _

He looked at the crumbling courtyard, and its new, crimson paintjob. He was impressed. They had successfully defeated a group four time their size, with no casualties.

'How many did you cull?' he cried out, grinning.

Jory pointed to three of the little ones.

'Three Squats? Not bad Jory!' he laughed, almost euphoric over the victory.

'Squats?' asked Alistair. 'The little ones are called Genlocks, and the taller ones are Hurlocks' he explained.

'Oh, alright. Which ones are the Goldilocks?' asked Nordja, bursting out laughing. They all joined in. 'The mage by the bridge, are they a separate breed as well?' he asked.

'They are Hurlocks, but everyone will refer to it as an Emissary' Jory filled in.

Nordja rolled the unfamiliar words over his tongue, silently, committing them to memory.

'Right then, lets find those damn treaties'

-oOo-

They found a chest bearing the Grey Warden seal, but it was smashed wild open, and not recently either. Weeds had grown over it, and the many years of exposure had rotted the wood.

As they prepared to leave, disappointed, Nordja got the same feeling of being watched, that had plagued him all day.

'_Well, well,'_ spoke a new voice. Female. He turned to face her. She was stunning, jet black hair tied in an elegantly wild bun, golden eyes watching him with keen interest. Her skin was the palest of alabaster, perfect. She wore a collection of furs and rags, but wore them with more grace and elegance than he suspected any lowlanders possessed. It was more than that, however, it was as if she was reading his soul. He felt vulnerable. _Exposed._

'_What have we here?'_

_**And so we come to Morrigan. My favourite romance option, (because it's the most interesting of the stories, and because she really makes you work for that happy ending)**_

_**Prepare for Flemeth, the Joining and Ostagar. All will play out . . . somewhat differently than canon.**_

_**Thanks to all my subscribers, and a special thanks to all my reviewers, you lovely people! **_

_**A/N: the Emissaries look like the ones in DAII, but the Hurlocks look like they do in DA:O. the Hurlocks of DAII simply remind me of Skeletor. I keep expecting a giant green tiger to jump out and get one. Ah, He-Man. (:**_


	4. The Witch, The Legend, The Chalice

_***DISCLAIMER: this is a product of Bioware, and pure fan fiction on my part. Once again NOT mine, just having a bit of fun with it. updates will maybe be weekly, maybe longer, as college will allow. Hope you enjoy.**_

_**A double update this week. Never say I don't spoil you.**_

_**A/N: it took me about 5 conversations with Cailan and three with Morrigan before I realised the game saves your last 20 something convos. *facepalm***_

'_Well, well, well'_ spoke a new voice. Female. He turned to face her. She was stunning, jet black hair tied in an elegantly wild bun, golden eyes watching him with keen interest. Her skin was the palest of alabaster, perfect. She wore a collection of furs and rags, but wore them with more grace and elegance than he suspected any lowlanders possessed. It was more than that, however, it was as if she was reading his soul. He felt vulnerable. _Exposed._

'What have we here? Are you a vulture I wonder? A scavenger, poking amidst a corpse whose bones were long since cleaned? Or merely an intruder, come into these darkspawn filled Wilds of mine in search of _easy_ prey?' she stopped, standing directly in front of him, challenging him. 'Well? What say you, hmm? Scavenger or intruder?

He found his voice, and thankfully, he didn't falter. _By the Lady, she was beautiful!_ 'I am neither. The Grey Wardens once owned this tower.'

She looked less than impressed. 'Tis a tower no longer, the Wilds have obviously claimed this desiccated corpse. I have watched your progress for some time. 'Where do they go' I wondered. 'Why are they here?' And now, you disturb ashes that none have touched for so long. Why is that?'

'She's a witch of the Wilds, she is! She'll turn us all into toads!' Daveth whined.

'Witch of the wilds? Such idle fancies. Have you no minds of your own?' she asked.

Alistair glared at Daveth. 'Don't answer her. She looks chasind, and that means others may be nearby.'

'Ooh, you fear barbarians will swoop down upon you, do you?' she asked, raising her arms for effect. Alistair flinched.

'Or have you found them already in your midst?' asked Nordja, turning to Alistair, trying hard to look menacing and keep a straight face.

'W-what?' he spluttered. 'She said it, not me!'

'Perhaps we are in league with one another, and I have led you into a trap!' he cried, unable to hold his grin.

Alistair looked confused. 'Not funny? Okay, continue.'

'You there' she said, gesturing to him now. _Do not stare at the robe. Maintain eye contact._ 'Tell me your name and I shall tell you mine.'

'Nordja, my lady,' he said, taking a bow. 'And it is a pleasure.'

'Now that is a proper civil greeting, even here in the Wilds. You may call me Morrigan.' _Morrigan_. It sounded familiar, but he couldn't quite place the tale. _Something about a sword, and a rock. _

'Shall I guess your purpose?' she asked. 'You sought something in that chest, something that is here no longer?'

'Here no longer?' cried Alistair. He seemed very on edge. 'You mean you stole them? You're . . . some kind of . . . sneaky . . . witch-thief!'

'How very eloquent. How does one steal from dead men?' She asked, grinning.

'Quite easily, it seems' said Nordja, breaking the conversation short before the two of them started arguing. 'I assume you have them?' he asked.

'No' she replied. 'Tis my mother that acquired them, actually.'

'Your mother?' he asked, incredulously. 'Can you . . . can you take us there?'

_Talking to her was like playing riddles with demons. _

'Now that is a sensible request. I like you.'

'I'd be careful' Alistair warned. 'First its, _I like you_, but then ZAP! Frog time.'

'She'll put us all in the pot she will!' moaned Daveth.

'If the pots warmer that this forest it'll be a nice change' Jory retorted.

He just wanted to be shot of this place. Nordja couldn't blame him. The Wilds were dangerous, but he'd never had to contend with darkspawn before. He saw his village, burning. He saw his father, dying. He felt the darkspawn, biting.

He rubbed his temple. _Get out of there._

'Follow me then, if it pleases you.'

They did.

-oOo-

They walked, the recruits following behind the witch, while Nordja walked beside her.

'How long were you following us?' he asked.

'Since you entered the valley,' she replied. 'Though you alone suspected I was watching before long.'

'I was aware of something watching us, yes. But anyone who was raised in these Wilds would have sharp ears.'

'Oh? And which part of these Wilds do you claim as your own?'

'The darkspawn claim my lands now. But they were far east of here, near the Southron Hills.'

'Ah. Then you have my sympathies, for what they are worth' she said. 'Which I assume is very little.'

'You're the first to offer sympathy, so I'll thank you regardless'

She smiled. He tried not to stare. It lit up the forest path like a beacon. He couldn't look away. _So beautiful . . ._

'I think I would have heard you following' he said, steering the conversation into safer waters. 'My ears heard nothing.'

'Tis far harder to detect an animal than a woman. I simply changed my shape to track you easier.'

'One does not change shape with ease. Magic must flow through you strongly indeed'

She smiled again. _Don't look, no, don't look aww too late._ She was utterly captivating when she smiled. He felt enthralled.

The others looked on disapprovingly, especially Alistair. He shot him a backward grin.

'We are here'

It was a shack falling apart at the seams, on stilts. Stilts. And it was filthy. The smell was horrendous, like something had died in the hot sun. There was an old crone outside, waiting for them.

'Mother, I bring these Grey Wardens who-'

'I see them girl. Much as I expec . . .'

She stood silent, dumbfounded. Staring at Nordja intently. Confused. 'W-what are y-you doing here, mortal?' she looked genuinely worried now. 'No, you were forgotten, you were forgotten for a reason, thi-this _cannot_ be!'

'Um, hello,' he replied, put off slightly by this madwoman. She was crazy. He put on his best smile and least-threatening voice. 'I'm afraid I don't know what you mean. If you could just return the treaties, I'll leave quickly. I don't want to cause strife.'

'T-treaties? Yes, yes of course,' she said, scratching her head and looking rather confused. Morrigan was not bothering to conceal her smirk. It wasn't often this woman was caught so flat-footed.

'Here you go, young man' she said, pushing a scroll into Alistair's arms. 'You!' she rounded on Nordja. 'Speak with me privately. Your fate is . . . unknown to me. You should not have survived thus-far.'

'Sorry to disappoint' he said, following her up onto a grassy knoll, away from the others.

'Humour. So like the others . . . and so different . . .'

'What others? What do you mean?' he asked.

'Forgive me, young man. You are in a tale the Gods did not mean you to be part of. My name is Flemeth, and your fate-'

'Wait, _you're_ Flemeth?_ The Flemeth?' _he asked incredulously.

He had met a legend. She was a real, living, person. He bowed. This was a true power, not the false God the lowlanders had raised. He was in _awe_.

'Does it matter? It's _you_ I'm interested in. Get up!' he rose. 'Now, there were six others, all of whom are surely dead now, or worse. But not definite, they may still live. Who cares? Not they.'

She paused. 'I'm rambling, aren't I? One of them was supposed to find me, and I would set them on their quest. But you . . . you are unknown to me. You will not allow others to command you as the others would have. The world now shapes to you, completely.'

'What quest? What others? Stay your cryptic musings and tell me plain and simple!' he was annoyed now. Kaart had once said that mages usually talked in riddles, but this was ridiculous. Apparently, the Gods wanted him dead. _Sobering news._

'Their fate was their own to make, yet still set upon a set course. But yours? Your fate is entirely up to you. You will still fight this blight, but the way you combat it will have far more major repercussions. You scare me, Warden. People like you are few and far between, and removed before they can spoil things. I should kill you, but you are now the only hope for Thedas. If the blight is not ended quickly, this time it will be unstoppable. The Gods will pit themselves against you at every turn. Be wary.'

'How quickly? How much time do I have?' he asked. This was far from what he had expected. But if this _was_ the Flemeth from the legends, her advice was not to be trifled with.

'I'd say you have little under a year. As for the rest of what you will accomplish, I cannot say. Things are about to get _very_ interesting indeed.'

'Right. I-I'm going to go now. Thank you for the . . . warning.' This was seriously messing with his head.

'I fear the world is not ready for you' she said gravely. She sighed. 'But it does no good complaining about things out of your control. Things are now in motion. You will have to suffice. So much about you is uncertain, and yet, I find myself believing. Do I? Yes I do.'

He gave her a sarcastic salute. 'As you say, ma'am. Going now.' He turned and started walking back to the others, leaving Flemeth standing upon the knoll, contemplating the events now beyond her control, quietly muttering to herself. As he passed Morrigan, he winked. If the Gods wanted him dead, he might as well have some fun with it. She smiled, and suddenly things didn't seem all that hopeless.

'Until next time, m'lady' he grinned, kissing her hand. She allowed it, grinning, while Alistair, now bored, made retching noises.

Morrigan retreated into the hut, while Flemeth stood talking to herself. _Odd woman_ he thought. _Very odd._

He turned to the others. 'Shall we be off then?'

'Yes, I'm sick of these Wilds' said Jory. 'Lets go back to Duncan.'

-oOo-

They left the madwoman to ramble at the dying sun, and made their way back to the ruins of Ostagar. Nordja wanted another view of the bridge, so he led them the long way back, up to the Imperial Highway. As they approached the bridge, he saw men erecting barricades around the tower of Ishal. He let the 0thers continue on, while he asked a guard what was wrong.

'Nuthin' was the reply. 'The Teyrns men say they've found tunnels underneath the ruin. Haven't found the end of 'em. The scouts they sent in there should be back soon.'

Nordja thanked him and hurried back, the view forgotten. This could only be bad news.

_Ever the Gods will set themselves against you . . ._

He drove the thought from his mind. The Gods can set their traps. He would be the one to spring them however.

-oOo-

He caught up with the rest as they were selling their spoils of victory to the quartermaster. Alistair and Jory used the cash to trade in their armour for new sets of heavy chain. As the senior member, Alistair's was of better make, grey iron by the looks of it. Heavy chain was not standard uniform. He suspected the quartermaster had just made a nice profit. Daveth invested in some poisons, also hardly standard issue. He also picked up a new quiver of arrows._ Sod making that many_.

There was no point hoarding gold with a battle imminent. They might as well spend it on things of use. Nordja eyed his leathers. Frayed, thin, useless. Still damp from his morning swim. He swapped them for a new suit of scale mail, iron. It fit well enough. He used the last of the coin for a new pack, his one had a tear in the side that would grow with time. Daveth handed his flowers to the kennel master, extorting a generous amount of silver from him, and they made their way to Duncan.

He looked impatient. They should have been back sooner. 'So you return from the Wilds. Have you been successful?' he asked.

'They were' replied Alistair.

Duncan smiled. 'Good. I've had the Circle mages preparing. With the blood you've retrieved, we can begin the Joining immediately.'

'Now will you tell us what this ritual is about?' asked Jory.

Duncan looked grave. 'I will not lie; we Grey Wardens pay a heavy price to become what we are. Fate may decree that you pay your price now rather than later.'

Nordja thought of the witches words. _She said he owned his fate. Then again, this might be where the Gods nabbed him. Screw it._ 'I have no problem facing what is to come.'

Jory sighed. 'I agree. Let's have it done.'

'Then let us begin' Duncan replied. 'Alistair, lead them up to the old temple.'

He led them up to the place where he had first met Alistair, and then past the pillars onto a balcony overlooking the Wilds, and in the distance, the southern mountain ranges. _The edge of the Earth._ Below him, the battlefield looked quite small. The wind was fierce up here, so high. His red-brown hair was sent flying. Maybe he should cut it short, like Jory's. It would be practical as well; enemies would not be able to grasp him. _Oh, Jory and Daveth were arguing._

_What a surprise_. He intervened before Daveth could get nasty.

'Are you blubbering again?' _Dang, too late._

'Why all these damned tests? Have I not earned my place?' he cried to the heavens. 'I have a wife, in Highever, with a child on the way. I only joined for the honour, and glory. I'd rather be home, where I could defend them. If they had warned me . . . it just doesn't seem fair . . .'

'You would do a better job of defending them here, where there are enemies to be fought, no?'

Nordja countered. Jory might not be Warden material, so Nordja decided he would gently forge him into the role.

'I just thought this would send me glory, but its just lie after lie.' He slumped against the pillar. 'I want to go home.'

Nordja squeezed his shoulder, shielding him from Daveth, who was pretending to weep. _Dick._

'I've just never engaged a foe I could not engage with my blade' he muttered.

Duncan and Alistair had returned with a chalice. Inside was a foul smelling concoction, giving off steam.

'At last we come to the Joining.' Duncan seemed excited. 'As the first Grey Wardens did before us, as we did before you, this is the source of our strength, and of our victory.'

'Those who survive the Joining are immune to the taint' explained Alistair, continuing on. 'We can sense it in the darkspawn, and _use it_ to slay the Archdemon.'

'Those . . . who _survive_?' asked Jory, shrinking back.

'Not all who drink the blood will survive and those who do are forever changed. This is why the Joining is secret. It is the price we pay' answered Duncan.

_There you have it _thought Nordja. _Hot, steaming poison blood. Joy._

'We speak only a few words prior to the Joining, but these words have been said since the first. Alistair, if you would?' Duncan requested.

'Join us, brothers. Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant' he started. 'Join us as we accept the duty that cannot be forsworn. Know that if you perish, your sacrifice shall not be forgotten, and that one day, we shall join you.'

Nordja had stopped listening. _A warrior would sometimes eat the heart of his foes, but these creatures were so corrupt and vile that this was nothing short of madness. Still, it could be done. _

He wondered how long it had taken the first Wardens in the first blight to come up with this method._ Did they despair, and try ritual suicide in the most grizzly fashion possible, finding salvation by mistake? Or were they guided to it? _

He thought of Flemeth once more_. The legends were hundreds of years old already, could she be older still? She had an interest in ending the blights, was she the true founder of the Wardens? And to think, this morning she had been naught but a myth. _He was travelling in strange circles indeed.

'Daveth, step forward.'

The words brought him out of his reverie. He and Jory watched in growing horror as Daveth drunk deep from the chalice and hunched over, screaming, as if his bones were aflame. He collapsed on the floor, dead. His eyes had turned blank, the colour of milk, staring up at them.

_Just like that . . ._

'Makers breath!' cried Jory, panicking. This would end badly.

'I am sorry, Daveth' said Duncan, rounding on Jory. 'Step forward, Jory.'

'No!' he moaned, retreating. 'I have a wife, a child,' he pleaded.

'There is no turning back' warned Duncan, dropping into a fighting stance.

'No' he begged, back against the pillar. Only a long drop behind him. He was like a trapped animal, wild and desperate. 'You ask too much' he whimpered, reaching behind his shoulder for his blade. 'There is no glory in this!' he sobbed.

Duncan drew his dagger. Nordja watched helplessly, as Duncan, kindly old Duncan, made ready to murder a man he should have never conscripted. Jory was right. There is no gory in this.

He planted himself between them, before a blow was struck.

'Jory' he said, arms outstretched. 'Jory listen to me. Put the sword down.'

'No, no I can still get away, I can still go home!' he was crying now, tears streaming down his face. 'M-my wife, pregnant, child' he stammered, unable to construct a proper sentence. His resolve weakened, Nordja took the blade from him, and threw it to the side.

'There are two ways out of here' he said, smiling in encouragement. 'One is as a murderer, the other a hero. Which will you be?' he smiled. Jory broke down in sobs.

Duncan passed the chalice to Nordja, who gave it to Jory. He took a sip, and passed back the cup, drawing hacking breaths. His eyes clouded over, and he fell back. _No screams of pain. Was he-?_

'He lives' said Alistair, finding a pulse.

Duncan sheathed his dagger. 'That was a close cut affair. Thank you'

Nordja nodded. 'You should not have recruited him. Any can see he is not fit for this foul work.'

'I do what I must' replied Duncan. 'But the Joining is not yet complete. You are called upon to submit yourself to the taint for the greater good.'

With those solemn words, Nordja raised the cup, and put the rim to his lips. He hesitated, and then swallowed a mouthful of the vile substance. He dimly heard Duncan speak, as if through a dream.

'From this moment on, you are a Grey Warden.'

He fell into the black abyss of nothing.

_**Yes, Jory is alive. To me, he always felt like the odd kid at school that no-one ever played with. Yes, I feel sorry for a bunch of pixels and voice clips. Sew me. Initially, I was going to kill him, but about halfway through writing chap. 3 I felt really bad and devised a plan to keep him. DarthsDroids managed to make Jar-Jar likeable, I'm going to try and do the same here. It was also fun to mess with Flemeth, who is usually on top of everything. And when the shizzle hits the fan next few chapters, boy will she be right. If I haven't dropped enough hints by now, this will NOT follow the usual story to the letter. Pretty soon, it'll be following rule of cool, if it's awesome, it's in. I have a rough plan set up but if anyone has an idea that's beyond the impossible, let me know and we'll discuss. This story is for all you guys, you should have a say in it. **_

_**Thanks to all my lovely, lovely reviewers**_


	5. Council of War

_***DISCLAIMER: this is a product of Bioware, and pure fan fiction on my part. Once again NOT mine, just having a bit of fun with it. Hope you enjoy.**_

_**A/N: super long chapter now, these things are getting steadily longer. If this continues, by the time I reach the Archdemon, it'll take a day to finish reading**_

_Such strange dreams . . ._

_He was in the Fade. That much he could tell. He was in a valley; the edges were shifting, expanding and contracting. The sky was various shades of green, shifting and solidifying on a whim. It was disorienting. He wanted to sit down and hold his head. He couldn't._

_The valley was filled with darkspawn._

_They looked at him, weapons drawn. They made no move to attack. They surrounded him, in a circle less than three paces wide. _

_Growling, mewling, snarling and retching, a cacophony of blind hatred and overwhelming malice._

_He snarled back._

_An Emissary approached, the darkspawn moving aside to allow him to pass. In its hands, it carried a chalice. _

'_**Welcome, brother.'**_

_The Emissary spoke, but he felt the voices of the entire horde speaking with it, inside his head. It was both soft and deafening. _

_The Emissary poured the contents of the chalice on the floor, and let the cup itself fall. As soon as it hit the spilled contents, it started to dissolve. Nordja stared at the Emissary._

'_What now?' he asked._

_The Emissary bowed. __**'The dragon awaits.'**_

_It moved to the side, and all the darkspawn moved with it. They held up against each other, closing all gaps, compressing and contracting into one, terrible form._

_Urthemiel stood before him._

_The dragon was beautiful in death, his deep purple scales radiating in the green light. It gave him an aura of otherworldliness, as if it needed to look more terrifying. His horns had thickened and his flesh had congealed into an unholy mass of muscle and pus. His eyes burned with hate._

'_**IT COMES.'**_

'_You are . . . you are him? The Old God?' Nordja asked. 'You're, you're real?' _

_He was breathless. He had never believed a dragon was anything more than a beast. This was . . . overwhelming. The proof, before his eyes? _

'_**IT SETS ITSELF AGAINST ME. IT WILL FAIL.'**_

_The voice, lyrical, powerful, terrible. A dragons roar, the voice inside his head. They were one._

'_**DIE, TONIGHT. MY GENERAL HUNTS IT. IT DIES, TONIGHT.'**_

_He looked up at it. So great and terrible._

'_I escaped you in the Wilds!' he cried, finding his voice. 'You sought my death there, You failed! You send your general after me because you fear me! You fear what I will do to you when I find you! I am your death!'_

_It laughed, such a terrible sound. _

'_**IT WILL TRY. IT WILL FAIL, IT WILL BEG ME FOR DEATH BEFORE THE END. AND I WILL GRANT IT. I WILL GIVE IT THE END IT SEEKS. IT WILL FAIL.'**_

_Nordja felt the world shift underneath him. Rocks melted like water, and he was falling, the sky was fading, he was . . ._

-oOo-

Awake.

The cold wind of Ostagar nibbled at his skin. He had survived. _By the Lady, he had survived!_

Duncan and Alistair loomed over him.

He saw Duncan's mouth move. 'It is finished. Welcome.'

He sat up. Jory was still asleep. Twitching and muttering. Duncan welcomed him from the Fade as well.

'Another death' said Alistair, staring at Daveth's body beneath a blanket. 'In my Joining, someone died too. It was . . . horrible.'

Duncan turned to both of them. 'How do you feel?'

'Shaken' whispered Jory. 'Very shaken'

'You're alive though' smiled Nordja.

'Yes, and lucky to be so!' frowned Duncan. 'Never draw your blade on a fellow Warden again, Jory.'

'I-I'm so sorry, Duncan' he whispered. He seemed to have lost all will. 'I'm sorry I reacted like such a child.' He turned to Nordja. There were tears in his eyes. 'Thank you. You, you saved me. I owe you my life.'

'You owe me nothing' replied Nordja. 'Just don't flip out like that again.'

'R-right.' He seemed to have some colour back in his cheeks. That was good.

'Did you have dreams?' asked Alistair. 'I had terrible dreams after my Joining'

'Such dreams come when you begin to sense the darkspawn, as we all do. That and many other things can be explained in the months to come.'

'No, this was different' Nordja was remembering now. His pulse quickened, as he recalled the horror, as if Urthemiel stood before him once more. 'I-I saw him' he beseeched them. 'The dragon, the Archdemon, he _spoke _to me.'

'What?' cried Duncan. 'This is bad news. He has singled you out. We must protect you from him.'

'What? No!' he shouted. 'Let him come! I fear neither him nor death. I refused to be left behind!'

Duncan frowned. 'The Darkspawn can sense _you as well_ now. When they find you on the field, _he will find you also_. He may direct them against you. I would not have such a promising recruit wasted.'

'_Tough._ I did not come all this way to avenge my family by sitting in the shallows. If I die, I die. I'm fighting.'

'I cannot stop you, but I _urge_ you to be careful. Do not take any foolhardy risks tonight.

'Fair play' he replied.

Alistair and Jory looked worried.

'Oh!' said Alistair, smacking his forehead. 'Before I forget, there is one last part to you're Joining.'

Jory stiffened. Nordja groaned.

'We take some of that blood and put it in a pendant. Something to remind us . . .' he said, glancing towards Daveth's covered body, 'of those who didn't make it this far.'

Nordja took his and slipped it around his neck. It felt cold against his skin. _Like ice_.

Jory's fingers were stiff and unresponsive, and it took a few tries before he could fasten his own knot. Once it was in place, Duncan turned to Nordja.

'Take some time. When you are ready, I'd like you to accompany me to a meeting with the king.' _Oh no._

'Must I?'he groaned. Duncan ignored him.

'The meeting is to the west, down the stairs. Please attend as soon as you are able.'

_What's the definition of 'able'_ Nordja wondered. _It might be a few days before he is 'able.'_

He sighed. _But the king would drag his country down with him to feed his own vanity. He had to straighten him out. Plus surely the Teyrn would no-doubt have devised a brilliant strategy._

He stood up.

Alistair and Jory walked back to the camp, and he stared wistfully at them. Ahead, he could see a great table laid out, covered in maps and stale fruit, nobody eating. He walked up to Duncan, hoping this would go smoothly and quickly. He was unlucky.

-oOo-

'Loghain, my decision is final, I will stand by the Grey Wardens in this assault' protested the king.

_Evidently he had a death wish. Or had yet to experience the horror of battle. Tonight would be interesting . . ._

'You risk too much Cailan! The darkspawn horde is too dangerous for you to be playing hero on the front lines' pleaded the Teyrn, desperately trying to shake some sense into the boy.

Nordja suddenly realised just how young the king was, when everything is a fairytale and you are the hero of your own life. _Tonight would no doubt beat it out of him._

'If that's the case, perhaps we should wait for the Orlesian forces to join us' replied the king, smugly. He had scored a hit, and the Teyrns expression twisted from concern to fury.

'I must repeat my protests to your fool notion that we need the Orlesians to defend ourselves!' he shouted.

Nordja doubted that Cailan had been alive during the occupation. Neither had he, but the stories the elders told . . . such cruelty and malice. Too much to forgive so quickly.

'It's not a 'fool notion.' The king argued. 'Our arguments with Orlais are a thing of the past. And you will remember who is king.'

Nordja wondered how often the king was forced to play _that_ particular trump card.

'How fortunate Maric did not live to see his son ready to hand Ferelden over to those who enslaved us for a century!' the Teyrn spat.

_This is getting tense. The king should know better than to argue in front of the heads of state _he thought, glancing at an old couple, no doubt important. The woman was dressed in robes of the lowlander faith, while the man was dressed in plain robes. _Who could they be?_

'Then our current forces will have to suffice, wont they?' the king grinned, pleased at having outmanoeuvred his general. 'Duncan, are your men ready for battle?'

'They are, majesty' replied Duncan. _Ever the loyal underling. _

'And this is the recruit I met earlier on the road? I understand congratulations are in order' said the king, turning to him now.

_Oh no. By Haakon, no._

'I don't feel that special, majesty' he replied, numbly.

_It was a lie. With what the witch had said earlier, and the Archdemon apparently singling him out, he felt very special. He was just sick of Cailan and his perpetual cheer._

'Oh but you are! Every Grey Warden now is needed more than ever!'

_Great. If the king were any more excited by the prospect of imminent death, he would peg him for a Reaver. _

'Your fascination with glory and legends will be your undoing, Cailan. We must attend to reality' interjected the Teyrn.

_Finally_, thought Nordja. _Hearing this will surely have been worth the kings company._

'Fine, speak your strategy.' The king appeared sullen. _How dare vital tactics interrupt his glory!_ 'The Grey Wardens and I will draw the darkspawn into our lines, and then?'

_The king was using himself as bait? Was he stupid? Oh, wait._

'You will alert the tower to light the beacon, signalling my men to charge from cover.' Replied the Teyrn.

_Relying on an outside force? That could be dangerous. Couldn't they just count to three hundred? Or have someone sound a war-horn?_

'To flank the darkspawn, I remember.' The king spoke over him. _So impatient to die._ 'This is the Tower of Ishal in the ruins, yes? Who shall light the beacon?'

Nordja knew where this was going._ And he knew he would hang before being sent on an errand, when his vengeance was so close at hand._

'I have a few men stationed there' mentioned the Teyrn. 'It's not a dangerous task, but it is vital.'

_Maybe not. Huzzah!_

The king noticed his grin. _Stop smiling, stop smiling!_

'Then we should send our best. Send Alistair and the new Grey Warden to make sure it's done' he grinned at Nordja, as if he had just done him a favour.

'No.'

'Hmm?' asked the king, pleasant smile sickening Nordja to the core.

'I said no. I did not leave my family to die so I could be sent on an errand while other men fight and die without me' he said, resolute. _Death first._

'We need the beacon' warned Duncan, trying to appease the king. 'Without it, Loghain's men wont know when to charge.'

'No, we do not _need_ this beacon. We _need_ a safer message to convey. It is too removed from the field, the signal will be hard to spot, and the tower is not even secure! I spoke to the guard earlier and they said they've found tunnels underneath it!'

Loghain nodded in confirmation.

'Now, I may be new to the Wardens, but where exactly do the darkspawn live? Three guesses people, and the first two don't count!'

'Maker's breath!' gasped Cailan.

'Then I will assume the beacon is lost to us' Loghain nodded. 'Any ideas?'

Duncan said nothing. Cailan was grasping at straws 'We need a new beacon, we need to light fires, we need-'

'No, no, no, you idiot!' he shouted at them all, his disdain for these idiots boiling over. He knew this would cost him, but he'd had enough.

'This is a Blight by your admission, and yet you step down and allow others to plan the battles for you!' he shouted at Duncan.

'You!' he yelled, rounding on Cailan. 'You have yet to see the horror of war, when the fear takes you, and the blood, and the screams of dying men. If you mention the word 'Glory' one more time, king or no, I swear by Korth I will strike you!'

Duncan looked livid. The king looked rather subdued.

'Heathen' spat the old woman. 'The Maker will punish you for this transgression.'

He ignored her, rounding on Loghain.

'Every man in the camp here praises your ability as a _master tactician_, but I can't imagine why. In all the weeks you've had, all you can think of is a simple flank charge?

'Our king demanded he fight alongside his Grey Wardens. My options were limited' he growled. 'You think you can do better?'

'Easy' he growled right back. Walking up to the map, he saw a birds-eye view of Ostagar.

'How many troops do we have?' he asked, a plan already forming.

'The king commands a force of ten and four hundred men. Plus fifty Mabari. We have around three hundred men stationed upon the bridge, to work the ballistae, and the rest are simple archers' replied the Teyrn. 'Duncan has brought a small force of Wardens, just over two dozen. The Circle sent us seven mages, along with thirty or so templars. And I command the army of Gwaren, around six hundred men.'

'The templars are not for you to utilize' warned the elderly woman. Nordja was starting to dislike her.

'Then why are they even here?' he snapped. 'Come to think of it, why are you here? You are not a _general_, commanding troops, you are a _priest_. Your role is to commend the dead to the Gods _when_ the battle is _done_, _not_ interfere at a _council of war_. Take your _templars_ and get out of my sight.'

The old biddy looked horrified. He suspected that a woman this important had never been talked back to in her life. _Good._ He was glad to be the bearer of new experiences

'H-HOW DARE YOU?' she screeched. 'I AM THE GRAND CLERIC! HOW DARE YOU?'

'Very well then, _Grand Cleric_' he smiled. 'You are dismissed' he said, waving her off. She tried to protest, but his back was already turned.

She left in a huff, shouting about heathens and barbarians, and the same old guff he'd heard about this 'Maker' since he arrived this morning.

'Now, for the strategy. The kings troops will not charge, but hold the line, and as soon as the darkspawn hit their lines, begin a fighting retreat underneath the bridge'

Loghain looked interested. _Where was the boy going with this? _

'When the frontline nears the edge of the bridge' he said, pointing to the northern edge, 'the centre of the line must appear to waver. Have the edges hold fast, and the centre fall back further, forming a 'V'. The darkspawn are unthinking creatures, they will not notice they are being lured into a trap. When the front of the horde is engaged with the troops, and the walls of the bridge and the surrounding cliffs have their flanks hemmed in, Loghain will charge their exposed rear, trapping them. Have the Mabari split into two groups, position them behind each side of the V. If the line starts to waver, or break, send them in to push back the darkspawn while the men rally themselves and re-form the line. The mages should be split evenly among the force, and guarded by the troops, if these 'templars' refuse to fight.'

He spat on the ground.

'And have the archers concentrate their fire upon the centre of the horde, until the Teyrn charges. Then the V will push forward once more, trapping the bastards like cattle. Does anyone have a problem with this?' he asked, glaring at all of them in turn.

Duncan still looked angry, but the plan appeared sound to him, and he was considering it. Cailan looked bored. Too many tactics, not enough glory. Loghain was studying the map.

'How do you know this will all work? He asked. 'Don't get me wrong, it is a fine plan on paper, but will it work in the heat of battle?'

'Hafter, son of Dane, used it successfully against a horde of werewolves. Although he didn't have the benefits of these cliffs to hem them in further' he added, ironically.

'I thought Dane was just a myth?' asked Cailan. 'He wasn't real, was he?'

'More real than your Maker' replied Nordja. Now he'd calmed down a tad, he was staring to realize he'd just ordered the king, the general, the head of the Chantry and his new boss to _'sit down and shut up.'_ If he survived the battle, they'd probably all call for his immediate execution.

'Very well, you've convinced me' agreed Loghain. 'Where will your _illustrious_ order be fighting?'

'The Wardens shall take the place of the kings guard' piped in Cailan. 'The Wardens shall fight alongside me.'

_Crap on a stick_

'You rely too much on these Grey Wardens. Is that truly wise?' asked Loghain.

_He had a point_ thought Nordja. _Better the king showed more trust in his own men._

'Enough of your conspiracy theories, Loghain. Grey Wardens battle the Blight, no matter where they're from' he argued.

_Conspiracy theories? What had the Wardens done to deserve that?_ He asked himself. He thought that Loghain's apathy towards the order was due to Cailan's endless prattle, but apparently it ran deeper . . .

'Fine. Have the Wardens provide the bait' he turned to Duncan and Nordja. 'The king is now your responsibility. If he dies, it is on your watch.'

Duncan nodded gravely, while Nordja stood defiantly against the thinly-veiled threat.

'Your majesty, you should consider the possibility of the Archdemon appearing' warned Duncan.

If it did, the Wardens would have no choice but to abandon the king.

'There have been no signs of dragons in the Wilds' Loghain warned. He had been shown up by a new recruit, a brilliant recruit regardless, but he was not letting Duncan escape his duty.

'Isn't that what your men are here for, Duncan?' agreed the king.

Duncan saw he was trapped. 'I, yes, your majesty.'

The old man at the corner who had stood with the Grand Cleric spoke up now. 'Your majesty, the tower and its beacon are unnecessary. The Circle of Magi could provide a much more potent signal, and we would be stationed next to the king, allowing the signal to be delivered instantly. Plus, if the tower is truly lost to us, this option is also the safest' he pleaded his case, certainly with reason if not charisma.

_A Mage_ thought Nordja_. Makes sense_. He remembered his initial presumption that he was cosy with the Grand Cleric. _Apparently not._ He grinned.

'Fantastic idea' said Nordja sarcastically. 'Why didn't you share that earlier?'

The mage squirmed beneath his gaze. 'The Grand Cleric would not permit it' he mumbled.

_Lowlanders. The sooner this Blight was over and he could quietly escape the better._

Loghain looked at the end of his tether. 'Fine! This plan will suffice. The Grey Wardens guard the king; the mages will give the signal. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to deliver the new orders to the troops.' He turned to leave, but Cailan stopped him.

'Thank you, Loghain. I cannot wait for that glorious moment! The Grey Wardens battle beside the king of Ferelden to stem the tide of evil!'

_There was that damn word again. Heads will roll . . ._

'Yes Cailan' agreed Loghain wearily, stroking his brow. 'A _glorious_ moment for us all.'

-oOo-

They took their leave of the king, and the mage, who introduced himself as Uldred, caught up to him and Duncan.

'I'd just like to thank you for your support, the mages will not let you down. The king will need a healer, yes? I'll assign Wynne to your unit, she is the greatest healer the circle has to offer, a miracle worker.'

Duncan bowed in thanks, and they continued on, to the camp.

It was like walking next to a furnace. Duncan was beyond livid with him, and he could tell as soon as they were out of earshot from the others he would be reprimanded. With extreme force, most likely.

When he spoke, however, he did not shout. 'I have worked ceaselessly for the last three decades to integrate the Wardens back into Ferelden. You almost undid everything back there. You insulted our king, the Teyrn, the head of the Chantry? What do you have to say for yourself?'

Nordja thought carefully before replying. 'I will not apologise for my actions' he began. 'The original plan was flawed at every turn. We now have a true chance of victory. But I could have handled my frustration better. After the battle, I will apologise to those I offended.'

Duncan snorted. 'It may not be enough, but it will have to do. You were right, by the way.'

Nordja looked at him curiously. 'About what?'

'It was a mistake on my part to recruit Jory. I needed recruits and he seemed a capable fighter. I realise now he has not the heart for this work, but it is too late. I am sorry.'

'It is not me you need to apologise to' he replied. 'When we stop the Blight, will you allow him to return home, to his wife?'

'Grey Wardens are permitted to have family, though it is often discouraged. I myself gave up my family name when I joined. He will be allowed to see them, yes, but the Wardens are his first priority from now onwards.'

'Really? Will he still be called upon to fight when he is old and infirm?'

Duncan stiffened slightly. 'We will discuss this later.'

They made their way beck to Alistair and Jory, who were chatting by the fireside.

'Ow dig ig go?' asked Alistair through a mouthful of stew.

'Oh, not to bad really, I _may_ have insulted everyone there, and now I'm in shit with the Chantry, but really, quite good' he replied, grinning.

Duncan explained to them in detail, what had happened. Alistair's befuddlement turned to shock, while Jory tactfully kept his expression blank, focusing on the fire.

Alistair looked ready to complain, but Duncan hushed him. 'What's done is done, we will face repercussions after the battle. For now, we must guard the king.'

-oOo-

They spent their last meal together in relative silence, each of them concerned about the battle to come.

Nordja had looked for woad, but found none. He settled on the next best thing, grinding berries into a smooth paste and daubing his face in the style of his clan. Two marks by his left eye, another by the right end of his jaw. Reaching up into his hair, he traced two lines down his scalp, both past his right eye, the first line finishing upon his lip, the second line finishing in the mark he had made there. The result was quite intimidating. It set within minutes, making facial expressions difficult.

Their silence was shattered at the arrival of the rest of the Wardens. Duncan introduced them all in turn.

'This is Ser Jory, and this here is Nordja' he said gesturing to each of them in turn. 'You two already know myself and Alistair, so allow me to introduce you to your new comrades'

'No need Duncan, we have tongues of our own' called out a huge man with an odd accent. He introduced himself as 'Gregoir.' He stank of booze.

As the rest of the Wardens stepped up to shake his hand, they introduced themselves. There were two mages, one who had once been an apostate, Alain, and another from the Circle, Brandon. When he learned Wynne would be joining them for the fighting, he seemed relieved. There were four dwarfs, Gatrik and Garrick, (brothers), Kallad and Lumbar, all warriors, all adorned with a brand on their left cheek. They refused to say what it signified. The rest were human, aside from one elf, who introduced himself as Sinderion. By his tattoos, he had been Dalish once.

Sinderion kept to himself for the most part, sharpening his daggers. When he spoke, it was faint, yet all paused to listen. 'I take it the recruit from Denerim failed?'

Duncan nodded, gesturing to the pines behind him, where Daveth was being kept. No one had energy to dig at this hour.

'May I?' asked the elf.

'Aye. Take the recruits with you, they should know the rules'

Sinderion gestured to him and Jory, and they followed him into the trees. 'As a Warden, nothing is sacred. You may be sacrificed, for the greater good. Others may sacrifice themselves. When they do so, you will take what you need from them. It matters not whether the items were sacred to them, they are dead, unfeeling. Your possessions are your own only for as long as you live. Do you both understand?'

Jory nodded, as did Nordja. They knelt by Daveth's corpse. Nordja had left his bow in his hut, back at the village, so he took Daveth's. His quiver, also. Jory didn't need anything, but was instructed once more by Sinderion that he should waste nothing. The living had more use for Daveth's leathers now. They stripped him, and wrapped him in rough canvas. They would hold a funeral in the morning, when there would be more bodies for the pyre.

When they returned, Duncan was gone, to meet with the king and this new mage, Wynne. He sat, and oiled his new bow, easing the string. He re-fletched some of the arrows, calming himself. _No turning back now._

_**This started off including the battle for Ostagar as well, but it got too long, so I had to cut it in half. Ostagar is almost done, and will be up in an hour or two. Hopefully. The strategy Nordja plans was used by Hannibal (think elephants in the alps, not Hannibal the cannibal) against the Romans, so its proven to work. As long as they are hemmed in. which depends on Loghain. Dun-Dun-DUUUUUUUUN!**_

_**A special thank you to Arisnoe de Blassenville, Josie Lange, Knight of Zero, Agent 94 and heketos for their reviews. Cheers guys.**_


	6. The Battle for Ostagar

_***DISCLAIMER: this is a product of Bioware, and pure fan fiction on my part. Once again NOT mine, just having a bit of fun with it. I will also be shamelessly quoting Trivium Lyrics later on. I don't own them, either. But I wish I did. Hope you enjoy.**_

The Wardens made their way down into the valley, taking point in the centre of the line, to both reassure the troops and to draw the darkspawn into Nordja's trap.

The king joined them, greeted by warm smiles and rough hugs. Nordja gave him a quick apology, and the king beamed at him. 'It is an honour to fight along the Wardens. Do not apologise, this is the battlefield, not the Landsmeet.'

Nordja doubted his other apologies would go so smoothly.

He glanced across the field of battle. No sign of the darkspawn yet, just the wind in the long grass, rustling quietly. Mist had descended around the trees, hiding their enemy's advance.

He drew his great-sword, planting it in the damp earth. He gave his scale-mail one last thorough check, finding no problems. He tested his bowstring one last time.

Jory sided up to him. 'Will your plan work?' he asked.

Nordja thought about it. 'Hafter used it, or something similar, against a horde of werewolves. They outnumbered him six to one. He slaughtered them all' he contemplated seriously. 'Yes, I think it might work.'

Jory nodded. 'I owe you my life. I stand with you tonight.'

He said nothing, but simply fitted an arrow, and waited.

Alistair joined them, saying nothing. He seemed to be avoiding Duncan, who stood with the king. He kept his gaze averted from his mentor, standing as far away as Nordja thought polite.

Lightning struck the sky, illuminating the field.

A war-horn sounded above them, on the bridge. He squinted ahead, into the trees.

They were here.

They were as wraiths, gliding silently from the mists. Snarling, growling, terrifying. Sliding their blades together, rasping cold metal against cold metal.

-oOo-

The Archdemon's General strode forwards. He rolled his head from shoulder to shoulder, clicking his neck. The darkspawn under his command seemed to be straining at the leash. His eyes glanced around, finding the familiar tug of the Wardens. A voice forced its way into his head.

_The Song . . ._

He saw images of a man, brown fur, big sword. Red markings. Eyes of steel. _**A Warden**_, the Song informed him. _**Kill it. Kill it now.**_

He glanced once more at his horde. They had rose form snarls and growls to full on roars of bestial hate. Stamping the hated earth, gesturing wildly with drawn weapons, screaming their hatred to the enemy. He slashed his sword through the air, ordering the charge. They screeched, leaping over rock and root, desperate to be the first to draw blood.

He smiled. _They would drown the world in blood._

-oOo-

Nordja saw the enemy advance. He drew a bead on a charging Hurlock, breath dying. He let loose, and saw with satisfaction the monster fall.

Behind him, he heard the king order the archers to start their bombardment.

Overhead, he saw hundreds of arrows cascade downwards, disappearing into the darkspawn ranks. A great howl went up, but still they came on, relentless.

'Hold the line! For Ferelden!' Cailan cried out to his troops. They answered back in a mighty cheer, raising swords, preparing to take the charge. Nordja, oblivious to it all, kept on firing.

40 feet. He notched another arrow, bringing down another.

3o feet. He was no longer picking targets, firing a barrage of pointy death into their fast approaching ranks.

20 feet. He threw the bow aside, and dropped his quiver at his feet.

10 feet. He drew his sword from the earth, pointing in at the enemy, ready to receive the charge.

5 feet. He let loose a fearsome war-cry, as Alistair and Jory screamed to their own God.

They were upon him.

-oOo-

Had it been hours? Or minutes? He had lost all sense of time in the scrum. Hacking, slashing, biting, burning, his foes died by the hundreds, yet they numbered in the thousands. There were always more. They had started the retreat what seemed like an age ago. The V was slowly forming, the Wardens buckling the line inwards, drawing their hated enemy into the trap.

He had not met Wynne, but she saved his life on more than one occasion. When he was exhausted, he felt new strength course through his muscles, when he was wounded, the jagged tear in his flesh closed up before he lost blood. He caught glimpses of her from the corner of his eye. A frail old woman, dirty bloodstained robes, holding her own against the horde. _Miracle worker indeed._

Jory was fighting well, hacking at multiple foes with his blade. He took a Hurlock through the chest, spilling rancid organs upon the ground. Alistair was pressed in, fighting simultaneously against five squats, _no, Genlocks_, Nordja reminded himself. He cut down at one, relieving the pressure on his battle-brother. Things were looking bad. Many of the Wardens had been cut down, only the mages, Kallad the dwarf, Sinderion and six of the men were still fighting. Duncan fought next to the king, who looked terrified. There was little glory to be had in this slaughter.

The Wardens pressed up against each other, forming a wall of steel. Nordja took point, the first to face the 'spawn. Jory took his right flank, Alistair, his left. They broke the darkspawn against them, again and again.

The left flank wavered, and snapped. The darkspawn poured into the gap, only to be repelled by the snapping jaws and the rending claws of the Mabari. Driven back through the gap, the men rallied, and fought on. It was going to be a long night.

-oOo-

Nordja was getting desperate. Bleeding from a dozen nicks and scratches, hair damp with sweat, matted with blood, leaking onto his face, making the paste run. His breath was coming fast and ragged. He needed to calm down.

In his first battle against a rival clan, his father and the warriors had broken into song. It concerned the end of the world. It had broken the enemy's resolve then, it would do so now.

Constricting his throat muscles, he started growling. And from the growl, words arose:

'NOW THE SEAS RISE'

A darkspawn charged him.

'UP AS SERPENTS'

He blocked the attack, sending the darkspawn spinning away.

'SPAWNED FROM THE MOUTH'

Alistair smashed the darkspawn to the floor. Nordja hacked at another.

'OF EARTH'S SURFACE'

Soldiers from the kings army were turning to look at the source of the unholy singing.

'AS THE SKIES NOW'

It was having the desired effect on the darkspawn as well. They feared to charge him.

'FALL FAST BURNING'

A Hurlock tried to turn away, but the push from the horde sent him towards Nordja.

'OPEN WIDE AND'

The Hurlock was run through, screaming in pain.

'FACE THE SUFFERING'

He was crazed. The song had turned him into an unstoppable juggernaut. The soldiers, having learned the singing came from the Grey Wardens, were invigorated, throwing off their weariness and fighting with renewed strength. Alistair was grinning, Jory's face a mask of determination. They were winning. The V was almost ready. He continued. 

'THE INFERNO'

Four Hurlocks cam charging at him, determined to bring him down.

'SPEWS OUT'

They swung their weapons, brandishing them with evil intent.

'HELL'S HORDE' 

He caught their blows upon his blade, their combined strength making him fall to one knee.

'CASTING THE FLAMES'

He rose, pushing them back.

'UPON OUR WORLD'

One could not get away in time. He skewered it.

'AS DEATH ECLIPSES'

Another fell by his blade. It had worked, he was regaining his stature.

'ALL THE LIGHT'

He was almost out of breath now. He drew on the last of his reserves.

'WE MAKE OUR LAST STAND'

Alistair hacked the arm off the Hurlock closest to him, leaving him defenceless to Nordja's follow-through.

'TIL DEATH: FIGHT!'

And fight they did. They butchered the darkspawn, cheering as they went. The last was cut down, and the rest of the horde pressed in, trying to fill the gap.

A horn went up from above, the ballistae had no targets left. The darkspawn were in the trap. Now all they had to do was spring it.

No more would they give ground. The V had been formed successfully, the darkspawn hemmed into the valley.

True to word, Uldred sent up the signal. It lit up the sky behind them, blinding the darkspawn temporarily. As they shrunk back, the men pressed forward, hacking as they went. All they needed now was Teyrn Loghain to charge the rear, and victory would be all but assured.

-oOo-

Loghain stood with Cauthrien, the men of Gwaren behind them. Cauthrien sidled up to him.

'Its been just over two hours by my count. When is the signal being given?'

Loghain replied 'When the darkspawn are hemmed into the valley. The mages will send the signal, and we will charge.'

'What if the mages have perished?' she asked. 'Do you want me to send scouts?'

He thought about it. _Uldred, and the rest of the mages sent by the Circle, had all been very old. He supposed it was due to the younger mages that might try and escape, but war was not the place for the elderly_. He snorted. _Some might call him elderly . . ._

As he was contemplating this, the sky lit up, blinding the unwary. He shielded his face, hissing. 'There is your signal, Cauthrien.'

'Right, Ser. Shall I sound the order to charge?'

He rather liked the idea of all those Orlesian Wardens dying. _If this wasn't a Blight, just a large warband, he would have them kicked out of the country and on a boat before they could say 'Conscription.' But Cailan was with them. And, fool he might be, he was still the closest thing to Maric that Loghain had left_. He sighed. _That barbarian from the forest would be fighting now. _He had seen something in the boy. He wasn't sure where from. And it had been a very good plan. He would see it work.

'Sound . . . the charge.'

He frowned. _No doubt Cailan had gotten into trouble with only the Wardens guarding his back . . ._

-oOo-

Cailan wasn't in any trouble. That was the problem. Duncan had spent the majority of the battle stabbing any darkspawn that went for him while he blocked their strikes. And those three Wardens in front, the recruit from the meeting, the knight from Redcliffe, his bastard half-brother, they all fought like men possessed. He wished he could fight his way forward, and share in their glory, but Duncan had subtly positioned the Wardens in front of him. It wasn't fair. He wanted to earn his place on this field. The horde was falling apart at the seams now. The terrible song from earlier had broken the darkspawn's resolve. Ahead, the darkspawn rallied around a fearsome Ogre. He would kill it, and bring the severed head to Denerim. Oh yes. _Wouldn't Anora love that? _

'For Glory!' he cried, pushing past a stricken looking Duncan.

He passed the recruits, giving them a smile and a wink. The recruit from the Wilds stared at him with glowing adoration. He thought. He could see them both becoming friends. Drinking buddies, even.

He smiled. That would all have to wait, of course. Right now he was going to kill this Ogre, smash the darkspawn, and win the love of his troops. _Time to stop living in fathers shadow . . ._

Nordja grimaced, watching the idiot run forward, pressing into the horde, all by himself. Duncan was right behind him, and the V was starting to form a line again. Loghain still had not charged. The V must hold!

'ALISTAIR, JORY, HOLD THE DAMN LINE!' he roared, throwing himself atop the nearest darkspawn. As they crashed to the ground he pulled himself up and ran, pushing and shoving to catch up with the king. Loghain's threat was obvious. He couldn't let that happen._ He wouldn't._

He caught up with Duncan, both of them trailing behind the king. The darkspawn were too shocked to react, otherwise they would have been torn apart in seconds. The king was close to an Ogre, now, of all things. Duncan cut down a Hurlock, and he saw the king just _yards _ahead of them, running at a breakneck pace. Could he not _see_ the Ogre, straight ahead? _Unless . . . oh no . . . _

The Ogre saw the gold man running at it, waving a sword around and screaming. Two more followed it. It reached out with terrifying speed to grab the first . . .

Nordja saw what Cailan did not. The giant, scarred hand reaching down, the king rushing forward, bellowing war-cry failing as he realized what was happening. Nordja put on a last burst of speed, tackling the fool king to the ground, as the Ogre missed by mere inches.

Duncan, swords drawn, leapt onto the beasts chest, stabbing deep, again and again. The Ogre bellowed in pain, flattening Nordja against Cailan. Duncan struck deep, again and again. The Ogre let out a last, pitiful whimper and collapsed to the floor, dead. Duncan removed himself from the enormous corpse, and joined Nordja and Cailan. The darkspawn formed an impenetrable circle around them. They were going to die, because of this_ idiot's_ vanity.

The idiot in question was crying. 'I don't want to die, Maker help me I don't want to die, there's still so much left to do, I don't want to die!'

Nordja slapped him, a little harder than necessary. 'Snap out of it, fight, or we'll leave you behind. Return to the men!'

Cailan looked at him in disgust. 'You DARE strike me? I am the KING!' he shrieked. 'You are a Grey Warden, and I ORDER you to get me out of here!'

'We're trying, majesty' gasped Duncan. Tackling the Ogre had taken a lot out of him. 'But there are too many. You must fight also.'

The darkspawn made no move to attack. Strangely, they backed away, making the circle bigger. A giant Hurlock, seven feet tall, strode forward_. A monster among monsters._

He raised his sword, not at Cailan, not at Duncan, but at Nordja. _So this is the mighty General I was promised_ he thought. As he nodded in acceptance, Duncan jumped in the way.

'I'll hold this one, get the king back to the lines!' he cried. As they began duelling, Nordja looked past the darkspawn. _The line was not far off; they might make it, if they were lucky_. A quick glance in the other direction told him the Teyrn had not reached the rear of the horde. _Where was he?_

Duncan was battering away at the Generals guard, but he could not penetrate his defence. Whirling on the spot, the General hacked down at Duncan's arm, severing it at the elbow, where his armour was weak. As the old man sank to his knees, too weary to scream, the General made to decapitate him.

Nordja wasn't having any of that. He collided against the General, throwing them both to the floor. They rolled on the floor, punching, kicking, weapons forgotten. Cailan grabbed Duncan and pulled him away. The darkspawn only had eyes for the fight.

The General pinned Nordja to the floor, and started methodically punching his head. Nordja was stunned, especially after the fifth or sixth blow. _The pain . . ._

He bunched his knees up, throwing the darkspawn off. He rolled away, grasping out for his sword. He rose quickly, as the General rose before him, unarmed. Snarling, it gestured to another Hurlock, who reluctantly handed over a huge rusted axe, with a blade larger than Nordja's chest.

_Crap on a stick_

They charged each other, weapons battering away at the other, neither of them inflicting a hit. They were matched. Nordja scored a hit against the Generals shoulder, denting his armour. It wasn't enough. The return stroke shattered Nordja's knee, reducing his armour to shards, blood pouring from the wound.

He sunk to the floor, defeated. The Hurlock cried out to the heavens, bellowing in triumph.

'I'm sorry father' he whispered. 'I tried . . .'

The axe came down, slowly, as if time itself had slowed to a crawl, to allow Nordja more than enough time to appreciate his death. _Or maybe to prevent it . . ._

He leapt forwards, into the attack once more. It caught the monster off guard, and they crashed to the floor once more. As the general rose to its knees, Nordja grabbed it's helmet by the ridiculously long horns jutting out the side. He began to twist. The General frantically grabbed at his arms, but he could not get a good grip. It started to punch Nordja's wounded knee. He snarled in pain but kept twisting.

The darkspawn surrounding them were shrieking with fury, while a fearful looking Cailan cradled a prone Duncan.

He kept twisting. He heard a dull snap, and the attack on his knee ceased. It was dead. _It was not enough_. He twisted further, putting his last strength behind his arms. Desiccated flesh tore. Vertebrae snapped. With a last, tremendous heave, he tore the head from the neck, holding the helmet high, screaming in triumph. Lightning flashed behind him, illuminating his dread figure to the darkspawn. The rain pounded down ceaselessly, wiping away his war paint, smearing it down his face. The skull fell out, landing at the feet of the nearest darkspawn. They shrank back, horrified. The V had pushed forward so far, it was not much of a stretch . . .

He took advantage of the darkspawn's confusion, hauling Cailan to his feet, who hurled Duncan over his shoulder. Nordja remembered to grab his severed arm, and together, they charged the wavering darkspawn lines, pushing their way to the right flank.

Behind him, he heard screams of fear, as the Teyrns men charged into the rear of the horde, trapping it within the valley. The beasts were cornered, and though it cost many lives, the armies of Ferelden met in the middle, and celebrated their victory.

Overhead, a great eagle flew far above the carnage, surveying the battlefield. _This is most interesting . . ._

-oOo-

Many hours had passed. Loghain made his way towards the medic centre, spotting Cailan hunched over Duncan, his protégée sitting off to the side, knee in a splint. An old woman rose from the dying Orlesian to greet him.

'Teyrn Loghain, are you injured?' she asked, full of concern. He shook his head. He had taken a scrape along his cheek, but it would heal. His immediate concern was Cailan.

'The _Wardens_ told me a funny story, _boy_' he snarled, drawing Cailan's immediate attention. Maric had called him that when he had gotten into trouble. It had the same, desired effect.

'Apparently, they tell me that once the signal was given, you _broke_ ranks, charging into the horde, against all orders and any sense. Tell me it isn't true?' It _had_ to be a lie; Cailan couldn't be _that_ foolish, _could he_?

'Aye' spat the youth who had disrupted their council of war so _spectacularly_, and handed them victory. 'He ran straight into the horde, with every intention of bringing down an Ogre. Duncan and I caught up to him in time, but then we were ambushed by the General. He almost killed Duncan, before I could put him down.' He glared at the king. 'That . . . _child_ over there nearly cost us the battle.'

Loghain looked horrified. 'An Ogre, Cailan? Are you _insane_?'

'The Wardens closed ranks in front of me, they wouldn't let me fight!' he whined. 'I just wanted to prove myself . . .'

'You did' called out the new Warden. 'You proved yourself a fool.'

He glared at Nordja. 'That man tackled me to the floor, and struck me. I demand you punish him!'

The young man looked bored. He threw a carving knife at Loghain's feet. 'Make it quick, if you must' he closed his eyes. He was obviously exhausted. Loghain picked it up and advanced on him.

He returned the knife. 'You are the hero, tonight. There will be no reprimand.'

Cailan looked scandalized. 'B-but he struck me! He struck me! I demand-'

He was cut off as Loghain slapped him, hard.

He didn't get up.

'Mage, make sure the king has no wounds and have him escorted to my tent. I will deal with his hysteria in the morning.'

Wynne nodded. Nordja was close to laughter. _This Loghain was every inch the hero the men praised him to be. _

Loghain looked at him. 'It seems your prediction was correct, my men informed me that the Tower of Ishal was indeed taken. Will you help me reclaim it?' he asked.

Nordja sighed. Right now he wanted nothing more than to sleep. _But there was indeed no rest for the wicked._ 'Certainly, though you may need to help me up the stairs' he said, gesturing to his knee.

Loghain offered him an arm, and pulled him to his feet.

They started to Ishal, but Maric's other son, the bastard, ran up to them, another Warden in tow, head swathed in bandages.

'We won!' he cried, embracing Nordja in a hug. 'I can't believe it, we won!'

Nordja nodded towards the tent. 'Duncan's been severely wounded, he may not pull through. Wynne is doing all she can for him.'

Alistair was gone, rushing to Duncan's side. Jory remained.

Nordja nodded to his head; 'What happened to you?' he asked, concerned.

'When the king ran off, it was just me and Alistair. The darkspawn crowded us as we tried to hold the V. We managed it, but there were heavy casualties. Only myself, Alistair, the elf, one of the dwarves and the apostate remain.' He paused. 'If Alistair hadn't been there to defend us, we wouldn't be here either. That man is a bulwark.'

Nordja shook his head. 'So few . . .'

Loghain stood a ways off, listening in on the exchange. _So, most of the Wardens were dead, and Duncan was dying. Such a shame . . ._

Nordja looked at Jory. 'If you're able, the tower is infested with darkspawn. Fancy a bit more slaughter before bedtime?'

Jory nodded. 'For you friend, anything.'

-oOo-

They joined Loghain, who escorted them to a platoon of men, with Cauthrien at their head. She looked wild, crazed. Her blood was still up.

'Orders, Ser?' she asked.

He pointed to the tower. 'We retake Ishal, and secure it.'

She nodded, pulling the troops into formation, and they marched to the base of the tower. The sight that greeted them was . . . sobering, to say the least. Dozens of good men, slaughtered, the darkspawn prowling around their remains, befouling the corpses as they went.

As one, they charged. The men under his command fought well, but the two Wardens were an army unto themselves. The former knight of Redcliffe cut down many darkspawn, but the barbarian, even though he had to hobble, attacked the darkspawn with such fury that they quailed before him. He cut, thrust and hacked, until there was not a single foe standing. The men stood in awe. Even Cauthrien was impressed.

'Shall we continue?' he asked jovially, gesturing at the door. Loghain nodded.

They broke down the doors, and the men charged at the darkspawn within. The forerunners tripped a wire, and they screamed as they were engulfed in fire. The trap took down six good men, while the darkspawn beyond cackled in malicious glee. Loghain soon wiped their grins off, shearing away limbs and smashing bones to splinters, avenging the fallen. Cauthrien engaged a Genlock mage, severing the foul little beasts head. The two Wardens mopped up the rest. He gave orders for two soldiers to watch over the fallen, and pushed on.

The next room was filled with darkspawn, all of whom immediately charged. The men were pressed in the doorway, but Loghain pushed forward, and was soon forcing the darkspawn back. The room secure, they pushed into the next. A gaping hole in the floor indicated the darkspawn's entry.

Cauthrien signalled for a group of men to watch over the hole, and to repel any darkspawn that tried to fight their way up. They left the men there, pushing upwards once more.

-oOo-

The next hall they came to stank of corruption. It seemed empty though. Nordja wasn't fooled.

'Darkspawn, behind those walls' he pointed.

Loghain nodded. The beasts behind those walls would not find easy prey. 'Fan out lads, be wary.'

The first man to approach let out a short yelp of surprise before he exploded in a shower of blood and gore. Loghain heard the twang of a ballistae.

Nordja charged into the gap, and looked in horror as three ballistae fired upon him. He rolled, feeling his knee strain, and grunted in pain. The bolts fired above his head, slamming into the opposite ballistae's, and the room detonated in a cascade of splinters. A Hurlock caught one in the chest, and it sunk to the floor, gurgling blood.

The men filled into the room, cleaving darkspawn as they went. They climbed further.

The darkspawn unsuccessfully tried another ambush, but the Wardens could sense it before they were in any danger. Loghain was glad he brought them. The main hall on the third floor was . . . upsetting. The Mabari had been stored on this level. They sat in their cages, whining and growling, as the darkspawn poked at them with cruel blades.

Nordja hobbled forwards as fast as his legs would carry him, kicking the cage release. Chains coiled upwards, giving the Mabari their freedom. They sprung forwards, inflicting terrible vengeance against their oppressors. Loghain smiled. He loved the Mabari breed. He had owned a bitch as a child. _But those were such terrible memories . . ._

He pushed the thoughts from his mind, and concentrated on killing. He was good at it. The darkspawn were not. He led the charge through their ranks, slaughtering them like the vermin they were.

The last hallway of the third floor was where they lost the majority of the force. As the Wardens remained behind to see to their bandages, darkspawn poured forth, overwhelming the line. The Wardens, realising their mistake, rushed forth. They stopped the 'spawn from overwhelming the rear of the column, but the flank had completely disappeared under a wall of rusted steel.

There was no time to grieve. Above, the top of the tower remained. Once that was clear, they could cover the entrance to the tunnels, and think about getting some sweet, blissful sleep. _It had been one hell of a night. _

-oOo-

Nordja took point up the stairs. He had made a grievous error, and now twelve good men were dead. There was only one floor left. He could do this.

With each step, his leg sent needles of pain through him. _Soon he could sleep. Would the Archdemon haunt his dreams again? Would he haunt them forever? He was so tired . . ._

He crested the stairs to find, of all things, another Ogre. _How did it get up the stairs?_

He charged, not bothering with a war cry. His Chasind flat-blade was nearly ruined. Blunted, beaten and notched from a full night of fighting, he was amazed it hadn't snapped.

He hit the Ogre from behind, blade driving home into the creatures flank. His blade snapped.

_Naturally . . ._

The Ogre slammed a massive forearm into his chest, knocking the wind out of him. Slamming into the wall also hurt a tad.

Loghain, Cauthrien and Jory, along with the troops, charged up the stairs, the roar of the Ogre hastening their steps. The Ogre grabbed at Cauthrien, but she managed to bring her sword up in time. It skewered its hand, and she twisted, leaning on the handle as the massive blade gouged a hole in the monsters hand. It bellowed, jerking back, sending her flying. Loghain screamed in fury, startling the massive beast. As it turned to face him, Nordja picked himself up, and ran towards it, snarling at the pain in his leg. He grabbed the hilt of his sword, still connected to two feet of blade, and stabbed it into the creatures calf, hamstringing the giant brute. Loghain took the opportunity to leap at the creature, driving his blade between its mean piggy eyes, and into the brain. It squirmed, and fell, dead.

Loghain looked around. They had won Ostagar. _They had actually won!_ He turned to thank the Warden for his help.

He was lying on the floor, fast asleep.

_**By the Maker, its been a long night. Two full updates, from one ginormous chapter. I was a bit tired towards the end, so if it sucks, please tell me and ill revise it tomorrow. So, Duncan is at worst dead, at best crippled for life, the king is still around to cause trouble, and Nordja is wounded and once again, without a sword. I think ill spend one more chapter mopping up Ostagar before heading into pastures greenish. And with regards to the battle song, I REGRET NOTHING! The verse in question is from the song (and album) shogun. And yes, Nordja was singing in a death metal scream. And no, the pop culture references will not stop there. It will get much, much worse. Mwa ha ha ha ha ha ha haaaa!**_

_**A/N: I figure the General was the one that the warden met in Denerim market.**_


	7. Bad Omens

_***DISCLAIMER: this is a product of Bioware, and pure fan fiction on my part. Once again NOT mine, just having a bit of fun with it. But I wish I did. Hope you enjoy.**_

_**A/N: Cailan was impossible to write. In earlier chapters I had played him for laughs, a grinning idiot. After trying to get a better feel for him (by reading EVERY fanfic with his name on it) I realized he was much more developed than I had written him. Rather than going back and editing past chapters, I'm going to send him into a spiral of madness, drawing inspiration from the likes of Commodus (Gladiator) in order to make him more of a serious threat. Fangirls, beware . . . **_

_**And also DAII features here. a bit. **_

Nordja awoke around mid-afternoon.

His knee felt much better. Wynne, or another mage, must have healed it extensively during the morning. He wasn't in the tower. The last thing he remembered was the Ogre . . .

Sitting up with a start, he looked around, frantically, heart pounding. The sun was shining, overhead. He was back in camp. _They had won._

His memory of the previous night was hazy at best. With a groan, he stood up. He was in the medic bay overlooking the king's camp. _The king!_ He remembered hitting him._ Oh bugger. . ._

He remembered the council. He had some serious grovelling to do.

It could wait. The Wardens were his first priority.

He quickly learned how sore his knee was. Every time he took a step, it added to a dull ache. By the time he had hobbled down the ramp and over to the Wardens camp, his calf was numb. This was going to be such a _fun_ day, he could tell.

Duncan was sitting on a canvas chair by a roaring fire. His left arm ended in a stump just above the elbow, wrapped in bloodstained bandages. He had eschewed his armour for a plain brown tunic and breeches. His feet were bare. He looked rather content for someone who had just undergone a forceful amputation. He held a small pipe, giving off a peculiar scent. _Weirdroot. That explains it_ thought Nordja.

Duncan waved him over, frowning. His eyes were slightly glazed over. Nordja remembered the times when his father had met with rival Thanes, and the pipe of peace had been shared around the room. It prevented bloodshed.

_Usually._

'About time you woke' he spoke, slightly louder than his usual soft tone. 'We have victory, though at no small cost. Most of the Wardens have perished, and I can do no more good.'

Alistair stiffened at this. The young warrior had his arm in a sling. The rest of them looked just as beat. Sinderion was missing half an ear, and two digits on his left hand. Kallad, the only remaining dwarf, had his chest swathed in bandages. The two mages, Alain and Brandon, looked drained, like they had not eaten in years. Jory was still asleep, snoring softly. The battle had left their mark upon all of them.

'So few.' Nordja shook his head. 'So few remain. We do not have the numbers to combat this any more.'

'I agree' replied Duncan, slurring a little. 'That's why we must appoint someone to take over from me. They will have to begin recruiting immediately.' He looked stern. 'Sinderion, are you sure I cannot change your mind?'

The elf shook his head. 'I may be a Warden, but the nobility would see a servant. It is not practical.'

Duncan nodded gloomily, and turned to the dwarf. 'Kallad?'

Kallad looked solemn. 'You saved me from Dust Town, all those years ago. I'll always be grateful. But I look after mine self, and mine self alone. Save the responsibility for another.' It was the first time Nordja had heard the dwarf speak. His voice was harsh, like gravel.

Alain and Brandon refused the post on the grounds it would antagonize the Chantry, more so than necessary. Alistair went through great pains to look small and insignificant behind Duncan's withering gaze. _Which left . . ._

'Me? A recruit? Lead you all? You must be mad' he stammered. This was too much responsibility, too quickly. If he failed, Thedas would suffer a fifth Blight.

'You have proved yourself capable. You fought admirably, succeeding where I failed, rallying the men, and from what I've been told, assisted Loghain in re-taking Ishal. That went a long way making up for your insolence at the meeting. I will still be here to guide you. But I can no longer fight, my years; they have finally caught up with me. I am no good to anyone anymore.'

'That's not true' mumbled Alistair, looking away.

Duncan smiled. 'I am old, and the taint has almost consumed me. I would have stepped down soon anyway.'

'Consumed you?' asked Nordja. 'What do you mean?'

Duncan sighed. 'Usually, I would wait a year or two before telling the recruits the harsher effects of being a Grey Warden. We do not have that long anymore.' He turned to Alistair. 'Some of this, even you do not know. Wake Jory, this is for his ears as well.'

Nordja didn't like the tone. Not one bit. He didn't mind dying. Everyone did at some point. He was sick of the lack of honesty. _Half truths and details withheld. Lowlanders . . ._

The recruits, too weary to stand on ceremony, sat down on the soft earth, leaning against the pillars surrounding the fire. Duncan began to tell them the effects of their Joining. The increased appetite Nordja granted, he was starving. Duncan moved into shadier waters. The nightmares that would haunt them forever, the shorter lifespan, the infertility. The Calling, issued to prevent the taint from consuming you.

'The slaying of the Archdemon, too, carries a terrible secret' he said. 'Darkspawn are empty, soulless vessels, and when the Archdemon is killed, the soul travels through the taint, possessing the nearest one. Then the Blight begins anew. However, if a Grey Warden strikes the killing blow, the essence of the Archdemon travels through the taint inside you, and your souls collide.'

'That doesn't sound too healthy' Nordja remarked.

'No, it isn't' Duncan looked sad. 'The souls cancel each other out, and the Grey Warden perishes along with the Archdemon.'

'Is there no-other way?' asked Jory.

Duncan shook his head, smiling sadly. 'None. I am sorry to have kept this from you, but we would have no recruits if we were honest. It was not the right thing to do, but it has been necessary.'

'Well then' said Nordja, straining as he stood. 'I have a question: are these vital Warden secrets shared with the head of state, at least during Blights? Or are the Wardens really that thick?' he asked, scowling at Duncan.

Duncan hesitated. 'Usually, they are, but only in Blights. I had refrained from telling the king as of yet.'

'And the Teyrn?' asked Nordja. 'As the general of the king's forces, and the only sane man around here, I'd say he deserves to know as well.'

'He is not the king' Duncan shrugged. 'If you plan on telling them, do so quickly. And I don't need to tell you to keep this away from the Chantry. We don't need them having that kind of leverage over us. The Joining is practically blood magic. If they found out, they might have cause to declare an Exalted March on Weisshaupt. That, we cannot allow.'

He nodded. 'I never thought they counted as the heads of state. You don't need to tell me that.'

Duncan, with help from Alistair, rose shakily to his feet. 'Then let all bear witness. I hereby appoint you, Nordja, as Warden Commander of Ferelden. In Peace:'

'Vigilance' replied Nordja.

'In war:'

'Victory'

'In death:'

'Sacrifice' he whispered.

Duncan bowed his frame, leaning on Alistair for support. The rest of the Wardens knelt. It was complete.

There was no rush of sudden power. No understanding. It was a title, nothing more. He felt like he had cheated the older Wardens. But there was no anger upon their faces. They were smiling. Kallad and Alistair wore big grins. Sinderion's smile was faint, but visible. Duncan and the mages looked exhausted, but happy. Jory looked up at him with barely restrained awe.

'Right then' said Nordja, a little shakily. 'First things first. Inventory check, how's everyone's arms and armour holding up after last night?'

Alistair spoke first; 'My sword is nicked, but an hour with a whetstone will fix it. The heavy chain held up well, but my shield is ruined, I need a new one.'

'New shield' Nordja consigned to memory. There was much to remember. In addition to Alistair's shield, Kallad needed his pauldrons repaired, Sinderion required more throwing knives, the mages had emptied their supply of Lyrium, and Nordja had lost or broken pretty much everything he had. His armour was cracked and ruined, half of his sword was still lodged in an Ogre, and the bow he had liberated from Daveth was somewhere down on the battlefield. A great start to his command. He could hear his father scolding him now.

'I believe I can help you there' smiled Duncan, pointing to his silverite armour, lying in a heap. It was filthy and bloodstained, but it was better than nothing. As Duncan returned to his chair and pipe, Alistair helped buckle it onto Nordja. It smelt of smoke, earth and faint sweat.

The ceremonial dress went on first, orange wool tunic under an embroidered cream robe. It would have been beautiful, save for the left sleeve ending in a ragged, red-stained tear above his elbow. He would need a replacement for it. He didn't mind. Orange was a bit too _loud_ for him.

Sturdy, leather gloves with attached bracers went on next. Nordja wondered what had happened to Duncan's severed arm. Who had fished it from the glove he now wore? It wasn't a question he wanted answered.

The breastplate, pauldrons and the many lames were buckled on, and as he slid into his new greaves, for the first time, he truly felt the part of a Warden, a hero, fresh from the fight.

'It suits you' mused Duncan, taking a large pull from the pipe. Nordja smiled. 'I'll go meet the king, give him your-my report' he said, corrected himself.

Duncan nodded his approval, turning to speak to the older Wardens.

With Alistair and Jory in tow, he went to make his report to the king.

-oOo-

The king kept them waiting.

As the long minutes passed, Alistair was getting noticeably tense. He was sweating, and talking constantly.

'Alistair' Nordja cut in, interrupting another terrible joke about cheese. 'Is something wrong?'

'Wrong? No, nothing wrong, why, does something seem wrong?' he babbled.

'You seem on edge. Tell me.' It was a request, but Nordja would order him in a minute. He didn't need this, not in front of the king.

He didn't get to find out. Just as Alistair was about to tell him, the tent flap was thrown open. Loghain stood there.

'Apologies, Wardens. The king had not informed me you were waiting.'

'I'll bet' he said, striding in.

The king was deep in his cups. A large purple bruise on his cheek marred his boyish good looks. He wasn't pleased to see Nordja.

'W-what do you want?' he slurred.

'Your divine company of course' he replied sweetly. The king failed to detect the sarcasm at first, face briefly lighting up. The words must have replayed in his head, because it quickly turned into a scowl.

'Very funny. Why did Duncan not come himself?' he asked bitterly.

'In case you've forgotten, after your fool attempt for glory, Duncan threw himself not only at that Ogre, but the General as well. Do you remember what came next?'

The kings expression was blank, uncomprehending. 'No, but I'm sure you think it's my fault somehow.'

Alistair couldn't take this arrogance anymore. 'Damn right it is, he lost an arm!' he shouted. 'He's had to step down from duty, and it IS your fault!'

Jory did his best to look anywhere but at the brewing argument.

Cailan's scowl vanished, eyes widening. 'I see. I'm sorry for his loss. I shall go and see him at once' he said, trying to leave. As he passed Alistair, he looked at him, really looked, and did a double take.

'You!' he spat. 'You're the bastard!'

'You've been drinking too long, majesty. I'm over here' called out Nordja.

'No, he-he means me' said Alistair dejectedly, eyes downcast. 'I'm Maric's bastard child.'

'Oh' was all Nordja could say in reply. This explained his behaviour outside the tent. And last night, it wasn't Duncan that Alistair had been avoiding, but Cailan.

Loghain looked startled. 'I thought Eamon had shipped you off to the Chantry' he snarled.

Alistair looked upset. 'He did, and I trained as a templar while I was there. But I hated it, and Duncan rescued me. I don't want the crown, and as a Grey Warden I can't have any titles. I'm no threat to your rule, majesty' he said, backpedalling.

While Loghain and Nordja were adjusting to this new turn of events, the king looked livid.

'You dare show your face to me? My mother was a saint, and if father had any common sense, he would have had you drowned at birth, along with your whore of a mother! Get out!' he roared.

Nordja would have liked to defy the king, but he could see how uncomfortable Alistair was. He nodded for him to leave.

Alistair beat a hasty retreat, scrambling out of the tent. The king rounded on Loghain. 'You knew he was here, didn't you! You all did!' he screamed, temper tantrum in full swing. He collapsed to the floor, sobbing. 'Duncan betrayed me!' he whined. Loghain patted his son-in-laws shoulder awkwardly, shooting Nordja a worried glance.

Nordja felt as if he were intruding upon a private moment. Jory was silent, his breathing shallow, eyes averted.

The king stood up, and looked shocked to see the two Wardens still standing there. 'What? Haven't you done enough already?'

'Majesty' Nordja began again. 'First of all, let me apologise for my behaviour last night.'

The words stuck in his throat, but he forced the apology out regardless.

'What for? Your insolence or your treason?' demanded the king, temper rising.

'It wasn't treason, you were hysterical, I was trying to get you out of there alive' Nordja shot back, tensely. He took a breath, shoving his pride into the nether regions of his soul.

'Majesty, this is a Blight, your kingdom needs Wardens. We can hate each other afterwards.'

'I'm not sure this _is_ a Blight' spat the king. 'The Archdemon refuses to show itself, and the Horde lies broken. Our _need_ for your order is over_. Leave_' he ordered, waving at the entrance.

_His tent or the kingdom? He would comply to neither._

Nordja stood firm. 'Majesty, this _is_ a Blight, I can assure you. Allow me to explain. Teyrn Loghain, you will need to hear this also.'

Loghain put a hand on Cailan's shoulder, calming him somewhat.

Nordja began. He hoped the king would realize the gravity of the situation. _A fool's hope._

'Duncan kept vital secrets from both of you, secrets which you need to hear. But these are for the heads of state alone, and they _do not leave_ this tent. Am I understood?' he asked, putting on his best stern voice. Cailan nodded, gloomily. Loghain looked eager.

Nordja told them, not everything, but the basics. He didn't trust the king with the secrets of the Joining, or the shorter lifespan and the Calling, which were all too closely interlinked. The appetite increase was too trivial to matter. He did, however, tell them both of the nightmares, confirming the Blight, the infertility, assuring Cailan that Alistair would have no heirs to challenge his rule. At the mention of his half-brothers name, Cailan reached for another cup.

Loghain knocked his hand away. 'No, Cailan. You need to listen' he warned.

Nordja told them of the Archdemon. At the news that a Warden must strike the final blow, Cailan looked more miserable than ever.

'Fine. The Blight we will deal with. And I . . . I accept your apology, once again. Do not let there be a third time' Cailan said, reluctantly.

Nordja surveyed the man. 'Majesty, there are other ways than battle prowess to earn glory. A man such as yourself could do great things for his country, rather than waste himself in war. Your people will love you, even if history does not. But then again, History only remembers the tyrants.'

Loghain nodded in approval. Cailan still looked glum. He changed the subject.

'So, which of the Wardens is in charge now?'

Nordja grinned, gesturing to his new armour. The king looked horrified.

-oOo-

Cauthrien was an irritated woman. Irritated that a Warden recruit had defied her lord and master. Irritated that he had wormed his way back into favour. Irritated that he had been right. Irritated that the Ogre had managed to knock her unconscious. And irritated that Loghain had ordered her to escort that fool around camp, to cheer up the men. She was not an idiot. The Warden and the king were not far from bloodshed, and Loghain needed to keep them apart. She would do her duty. She always did.

Nordja was oblivious to her ire. When the Teyrn had suggested his lieutenant take him on a tour of camp to scout for any recruits, he was too deep in thought to notice her scowl. He was wondering how to earn back the kings favour. He didn't particularly _want_ to, but now that Duncan had passed the mantle to him, he couldn't afford to sit back. The Wardens were counting on _him_ now. All of Thedas was at stake.

_No pressure then_

They had met with thirteen captains so far, and inspected their troops whilst they sparred. A few had looked promising, but he hadn't yet found anyone that _wowed_ him. They approached the next section of the camp.

'And here, Warden Commander, is Captain Varel' Cauthrien droned, evidently bored.

The man that approached him was older than most they had met, clinging on stubbornly to the edge of his prime. His hair was grey, his face, gaunt. His eyes were kind, however.

'Warden Commander' the nod was curt, without fawning as many had done. Nordja returned it.

'I understand you're here to spirit away my boys for your order.'

Nordja smiled. 'Only if I like what I see.'

Captain Varel nodded. Turning to the lads under his command, he barked orders for them to assemble and pair up. With tired groans, they complied, drawing steel and settling into a battle tempo, striking blows against their partners.

Nordja scanned the men, his eyes settling on a boy no more than eighteen.

'That on there' he pointed. 'What's his name?'

'Carver, Carver Hawke' Varel grunted. 'One of my best.'

Nordja could see that. The boy fought his partner with such energy and enthusiasm, always triumphing quickly. His opponent couldn't land a hit. That was not his only interest in him. Even from here, he could sense the taint. The poor lad must have swallowed darkspawn blood in last nights swirling melee.

'Carver!' he called out. The boy looked up, sweeping his raven hair out of his eyes. Nodding to his partner, he walked up to the Warden, pausing only to greet his captain with a nod.

'Yes, milord?' he asked, a tad apprehensively.

'How do you feel?' asked Nordja. Up close, the boy even _smelt_ like a darkspawn. The taint was kicking in. if left unchecked, soon he would be naught but a Ghoul. _Poor sod._

'A bit . . . wrong' he answered truthfully.

Varel stepped in. 'Don't tell me you got some of that poison in you, lad. I _fucking_ told you all to be careful!' He looked worried for his charge.

Carver shook his head. 'I don't remember . . . just-'

He collapsed to the ground. The taint and the sparring match had really taken the fight from him. His limp body was paling by the second, damp with sweat.

Nordja kicked into action immediately. Hefting the boy onto his shoulders, he began to jog back to the king's camp, while Cauthrien muttered a curt 'farewell' to Captain Varel. The captain looked dismayed.

_It can't be helped_ thought Nordja. He prayed the boy survived. It was better than succumbing to . . . _this_.

-oOo-

The afternoon gave way to evening. Duncan instructed Nordja in how to carry out the Joining, and thankfully, the boy had survived, although he was still unconscious. Nordja now stood on a vast balcony, overlooking the Wilds.

_It's unlikely I'll ever return_ he thought, miserably.

Behind him, there was a commotion in the camp. Men jeered and catcalled, whistling as a woman made her way to the Warden's encampment. As he turned to get a better look at her face, he grinned.

_Morrigan . . ._

_**Ugh, good riddance to a bad chapter. I had hoped to wrap up Ostagar and Lothering quickly, but I got a bit carried away, and you guys needed an update. I don't like how this turned out, it sounded much better in my head. **_

_**Is Cailan too much? Is Loghain not enough? I don't think I did them justice here, your opinions would help greatly.**_

_**I made Nordja commander because the Warden is pretty much commander after Ostagar, and with Duncan still around (if a tad broken) I wanted to make it clear who will be calling the shots. **_

_**Everyone seems to be trying to integrate DAII, and I'm a slave to trends. Hawke is a mage, and so at Lothering, with Bethany, so its only Carver for now. I need to do a speed run to get a better picture of his character, he died in the beginning in my first playthrough. And Varel isn't the seneschal from awakenings, but in the DAII codex, it mentions that Carver (& possibly Hawke) served under a Captain Varel. Cousins, maybe? Meh. **_

_**Once again, I apologise for this awful, awful chapter. Its really hard to write after a battle. Not as exciting. Next update sometime next week. Thanks for reading.**_


	8. Might of the Horde

_***DISCLAIMER: this is a product of Bioware, and pure fan fiction on my part. Once again NOT mine, just having a bit of fun with it. But I wish I did. Hope you enjoy.**_

She was even more captivating than before, if it were possible. The raven hair, the loose robes and the pale, perfect alabaster skin. Her golden eyes held his gaze, mastering the new Commander of the Grey. He was hers, completely and utterly. When she spoke, in that archaic accent, it took all of his will not to smile vacantly and grin like a fool. As it was, he could still feel the edges of his lips twitching. The words '_get a grip_' circulated through his mind.

'Morrigan' he managed. 'This is . . . unexpected.'

Inwardly, he kicked himself. _I can do better than this!_ _What is wrong with me?_

Cailan approached, followed by a gang of fawning sycophants.

'My lady' the king said, breathlessly, kissing her fingers. _Who was this strange woman? There weren't many like her in Denerim. _

_There weren't many like her in Thedas. _He decided at once he must have her.

'Allow me to be the first to welcome you to Ostagar' he said smoothly, using the charm he had used so many times upon naive servants and minor noblewomen.

_Well, this is just perfect_ thought Nordja, looking no doubt the complete idiot.

As the king flirted, however, the young witch shot subtle glances at him. Cailan failed to notice.

'Warden' she said, commanding his attention, dismissing the king. 'My Mother sends her congratulations upon winning your battle' she smiled, aware of the slight towards his majesty.

Cailan stiffened. '_His_ battle?'

Nordja suppressed a smirk. 'It was his majesty that gave us victory' he lied through gritted teeth.

Morrigan saw through the lie easily, but offered no comment, merely shrugged.

'I have come to offer my services to you, upon my mother's request' she said, getting straight to the point.

'You are most welcome here' interjected the king. Nordja simply smiled and nodded, not trusting his tongue.

'May I escort you around camp?' enquired Cailan. 'You really must have the grand tour!'

The sullen, brooding figure from this morning was gone. In his place was the excited puppy Nordja had met yesterday. Maybe things were not as dire as they had seemed.

Still, he was less than pleased that the king had so artfully outmanoeuvred him. He frowned, slightly.

Morrigan was not his, he had no claim over her, but he suspected she would allow no man to claim her as his own. A true free spirit. And she did not strike him the type to be so easily charmed by this pampered idiot. He made no attempt to stop her.

'If you wish' was all she said.

If the king was surprised by her show of indifference, he did not show any emotion, too busy casting subtle glances at her chest. He led her away, chatting amiably, and to himself.

-oOo-

The boy, Carver, was awake.

Weakly, he called out for water. Alistair was on hand to offer it. He didn't know where he was, and having passed the Joining unconscious, was unaware of his new status. He greeted the news stoically. Nordja saw no reason to continue Duncan's methods, instead surrendering all the news into one, bitter pill.

Carver took the news stoically, and without complaint.

His first recruit. His first victim. It horrified him to the core.

'Have you family?' asked Nordja.

'They live in Lothering. My father died not three years ago, and now my _brother_ is the head of the house.'

Nordja could tell from his tone that the siblings didn't get on.

'Both my brother and my sister are . . . ill. They rarely leave the house, staying cooped up with mother. I was so excited to get away, out of _his_ shadow' he paused. 'Now, I'm not so sure it was worth it.'

It probably wasn't.

He left the boy to Alistair's care, seeking refuge in solitude. He could not escape the voices in his head, screaming at him, cursing every decision he had made. He hated everything.

Standing on the same ledge he had stood last night, back when he was still human. Contemplating the life he had stolen. Contemplating others he would steal. Contemplating his own loss. Duncan joined him.

'Does it ever get any easier?' he asked both himself and the ex-Warden.

'After a while. When you have fought the darkspawn as long as I have, you start to reason with yourself, that this is all necessary' he replied. A pause. 'But I still feel guilty, every time I meet their eyes. Every time.'

Nordja didn't reply. Duncan left him to his thoughts.

-oOo-

The sun sank into the mountains. Darkness fell upon the landscape. The moans of the dying echoed around the camp. Upon a podium, the king gave a speech, honouring the dead, praising the living. Nordja drank to their memory. It was all he could do.

_Hail the victorious dead . . . _

-oOo-

The moon was high in the heavens now. He kept the lonely vigil, staring into the Wilds, not seeing anything. This was hardly a tale worthy of song. Not a life he would have chosen. He remembered the faces of the dead, his clan, his brothers in-arms. _His father . . ._

'You are not the same man I met yesterday' she said. He had not heard her approach. She took a place next to him, gazing into their Wilds. Their home.

'That battle, it changed you, did it not?' she observed, not really asking.

'Not the battle. The aftermath. Fighting is easy; you don't have to worry about the consequences. Surviving, living with yourself afterwards, that is the hard part. So many died, so many-'

'So many more _would_ have died had you not intervened' she interrupted. Your king told me of the meeting. He seemed most . . . disagreeable.'

'He's not _my_ king' he declared, quietly. 'He doesn't realize the reality of the Blight, no-one does. I think . . .' he paused, searching for the right words. 'I think it would have been better if I had not saved him. If he had perished.'

'That is _treason_' she smirked. 'But I agree. He seemed far more interested in getting into my undergarments than the consequences of this Blight.'

'Did he now?' he asked, turning to face her for the first time. 'He didn't . . . force himse-'

'No' she interjected. 'And if he had tried, he would not have succeeded.'

'We'll have to leave soon. Tomorrow, maybe. I don't think I can stand his smug presence a moment longer.'

'No love lost between you two then?' she asked, sweetly as a viper. He would have to remember to guard his tongue more closely.

'None' he grinned, paining his face. He had stood here too long. A yawn broke the silence. He realised it was his.

'The hour is late, and _your_ battle is won. Turn in, Commander.'

'What of you?' he asked. 'Take my bedroll.'

'Chivalrous as your offer was, I think I shall prefer to perch tonight, the better to observe.'

'Perch? In a tree? How-' he began, before remembering her . . . _abilities_.

He was tired. 'As you wish' he bowed awkwardly. _Where was yesterday's confidence? _

Her golden eyes never left his retreating form, staring long into the darkness. _Mother had been surprised at the outcome. Scared, even. She would do well to watch him. And ready him, for what must be done. She would not fail. She would not allow herself to fail. She never did._

-oOo-

_The Fade. _

_The same canyon as before, though with less darkspawn. Much less. Urthemiel stood before him, waiting. He could feel waves of intense hatred, such unholy malice, all of it directed upon him. Drowning in a sea of hate._

'_**DOES IT ENJOY ITS VICTORY?**__' The dragon asked, the terrible voice drowning out his mind. _

'_I do' he replied. 'How are things at your end?'_

'_**DO NOT MOCK ME, WORM! IT IS NAUGHT BUT SHADOWS AND DUST, FRAIL BEFORE MY MIGHT!**__' The words burned into his skull, forcing him to his knees. No power could fight this. He could not fight this. _

'_**BEHOLD!**__' The Archdemon roared, rearing into the green nothingness. Images flashed through his mind. The power of the ancient Gods. The devastation of previous Blights. The locust hordes beneath the world, marching ever on. Marching towards Ferelden. _

_His will was not broken, simply swept aside, brushed from existence. The battle last night had not mattered. The army could not stand against this legion of evil. Nothing could. _

'_**DOES IT ENJOY ITS VICTORY?**__' The dragon asked once more. It was gloating he realized. _

'_Finish it' he whispered. The Archdemon opened its vast maw, and he was bathed in purple flames, setting his soul aflame. He screamed, falling, forever falling . . ._

-oOo-

He awoke with a start, gasping for air. The other Wardens were hastily waking too, crying out in terror.

'It saw us!' cried Alistair. 'It saw us!'

Jory was silent, numb. Carver was bathed in cold sweat. Duncan looked very pained, in deep conversation with the older Wardens.

'What did it say to you?' he asked, trying not to inspect himself for burn marks.

'Say? It didn't say anything, it just looked at me and started roaring' Alistair fumbled.

'So it _has_ singled me out. Joy.' The revelation didn't hit him as hard as he might have thought. _But there was something else . . ._

'Gods above, the horde!' he cried. 'Duncan, it, he, it showed me the horde, under the earth ! The armies we have will not be enough, not with all we lost! What do we do?' he was panicking now. This was an opponent he could not best. Ostagar would do little to stop the darkspawn. He needed more men . . .

'Wake the Teyrn! Beseech him to allow the armies of Orlais to aid us. Take these' he said, handing him the treaties he had recovered from Flemeth. 'They may be of use.'

With that, he was gone, racing across the camp to the only one who could help him.

He darted past the guard and almost smacked into the king. They were arguing. He caught a few words concerning the Queen before they looked up, both livid. _Oops._

The guard announced his presence, awkwardly and too late, before Loghain drained a glass and offered him a seat. The king looked on curiously.

'Majesty' he gasped breathlessly. 'Teyrn. I told you both earlier that Wardens could sense and sometimes hear the Archdemon, and tonight, he spoke.'

He relayed to them the dream, fighting to remember as much as he could. He told them of the horde.

'How many did it number?' asked Cailan.

'Untold . . . untold thousands' he murmured. _There was no hope . . ._

'Then we will need reinforcements. I shall contact Cele- I mean, the Empress.'

'No you bloody wont' snarled the Teyrn. 'Ferelden will stand alone, we will muster the Bannorn, push for more troops, and get the troops owed to us by Amaranthine. That Orlesian bitch will send troops down Gherlen's pass over my dead body!'

'But the Chevaliers-'

'No, Cailan. If you have any respect for me, your father, your country, you will not do this. I forbid it.'

'There are other allies we can call on' said Nordja, showing them the treaties. 'These promise help from mages, dwarves and the Dalish.'

'The Circle only sent us seven mages, we could definitely use more. I don't know where you'd find the elves, but the dwarves will be at Orzammar, here' he said, pointing at a vast map spread over a table. 'When will you leave?'

'In the morning. Or tonight. Right now, maybe. I'll leave Duncan here, along with the majority of the Wardens in case the Archdemon shows. If that is acceptable?'

'So long as you take the whelp' said Cailan, turning to leave. 'You know, this is better than the Wardens. An army of legend, under my command. Glorious . . .' he said dreamily, speaking once again to himself. Loghain frowned.

'Go now, take Maric's bastard with you. And that witch, I don't want Cailan getting distracted'

Nordja bowed, retreating back to the Wardens. What a mess. And it was all on him. Joy.

They looked at him expectantly, curious. They had not seen the horde. But the Archdemon had seen them all while looking for him. They were scared.

'Well?' asked Carver, impatiently.

'Pack your things, we're leaving. You too' he said, gesturing to both Alistair and Jory.

'Loghain forbade Orlesian help, so now those treaties are the only hope. I'm leaving the older Wardens here, in case the Archdemon shows. You three are coming with me, to gather these allies, as quickly as possible.'

Alistair seemed resigned. 'When do we leave?'

'Now. Immediately. Pack.' With that, Nordja cast his eyes around for Morrigan. She was a bird, in a tree, he realised. _Bugger_.

'Morrigan!' he called out. There was no answer. She would have to catch up.

He turned to Duncan.

'When she awakes, tell her to follow. We cannot wait.'

With that, he turned, Wardens in tow, and set off to counter this new threat. They made their way to the edge of the campsite, and set off into the world beyond.

_**Sorry this took so long to update, ill try not to let it happen again. Thanks to all my (very) patient reviewers. Hopefully I can get over these messy chapters soon and concentrate on the plot. If I didn't have to upload these for you guys, I would have probably given up by now. So thank you once again for keeping me going. **_


	9. Fear and Lothering in Las Thedas

_***DISCLAIMER: this is a product of Bioware, and pure fan fiction on my part. Once again NOT mine, just having a bit of fun with it. Hope you enjoy.**_

_**A/N: my computer broke down, i moved out and couldn't afford a new one. I wasn't sure whether or not to continue, so i'll do a few more chapters, gauge the reactions to see if people are still interested and go from there. Thank you all for being patient with me.**_

The Wardens ran through the night, fear driving them to the limits of their endurance. They did not stop until the first rays of the sun rose over the hills to the East, blinding them. Nordja called a halt.

'Rest' he gasped, fighting for a lungful of air. His legs shook beneath him, his injured knee sending him waves of agony. Every fibre in his body screamed for release.

As one, the Wardens collapsed on the spot. They all looked pale, frightened, and exhausted. Carver dragged himself to the side of the road and proceeded to vomit, noisily.

'We can't go on like that' Alistair groaned. 'We just can't'

'We need to' he gasped in reply, fighting for each breath. 'You saw the Horde. If we can't make good time, the army will be overwhelmed. How far until Lothering?'

Carver looked up, tendrils of puke trailing from his lips. 'At this pace, maybe two more days. But we'll never be able to keep it up.'

Jory looked half-dead. 'We should've brought horses. Or a wagon.'

Alistair shook his head. 'Only the nobles brought them, and they would never have given them up. Horses go mad at the smell of Darkspawn. You'd never get them to charge.'

'Better press on then' said Nordja, clambering wearily to his feet.

The sky turned blood red as dawn came and went, the sun inching into the sky, as below, the four Wardens staggered down the Kings Highway, panting and wheezing.

As lunch came and went, with only a few stale crusts between them, Nordja came to realize his folly. _I got us all killed_ he thought miserably. _I panicked, I rushed, and now were doomed. No food, no rest, and this unbearable pace. A great start to his command. Still,_ he thought, grinning, _At least no Cailan._

Morrigan found them shortly after midday. A crow flew overhead, there was a flash of light and she stood before them, frowning slightly.

'Fool' she spat in that delightfully archaic accent of hers. 'When Duncan told me how you shot off into the night with no provisions and no plan, I was sorely tempted to call him liar. But here you stand, or sag, rather.'

'Berate us later, when we can muster the energy to care' he wheezed. 'The Archdemon has shown us the full might of the horde; we need to replenish our numbers, as soon as possible. I made a bad decision, and now we're paying for it.'

She took from her pack a haunch of meat, and waved it in front of them. 'Hungry, at all?' she crooned.

At that moment, he could have kissed her. They all stood mesmerised by the prospect of food, idiot, vacant grins adorning all their faces. Her fingers danced with fire, and within seconds, it was cooked. She tossed it to them, and all decorum forgotten, they fell upon it like wolves, tearing off great chunks and stuffing them down their gullets. She turned away in disgust.

When they were finished, Nordja sheepishly wiped his mouth and thanked her profusely.

'At least you made good time' she said, staring towards their destination. 'It would appear that we have company.'

Nordja squinted into the distance, unable to make out anything other than a small cloud of dust, steadily growing larger. Then he was able to make out details, shining glints of armour, banners, and he understood what he was seeing.

An army, bearing down on Ostagar.

As they got nearer, he could make out more and more details. Upon their banners was marked a grey block, upon a reddish triangle.

'Eamon' breathed Alistair. 'Redcliffe has come!' he cried, exuberant.

They stood to one side, allowing the troops to march past. What Nordja had taken for simple shapes turned out to be a tower upon a mound of earth, carried by grim-faced veterans, none looking too pleased to be marching towards their possible doom.

A fearsome destrier galloped along the line, a stern faced man well past his prime seated atop him. As he reined in his charge, he looked momentarily stunned.

'Alistair?' he called out. 'What brings you here? I was about to arrest your party for desertion, surely that cannot be the case.'

Nordja didn't like his tone. It smacked of lowlander so-called superiority, a voice that sounded entitled to lord over others. He stepped up to the man, glaring at the massive warhorse as he spoke.

'Commander Nordja, of the Grey Wardens, sir. Who might you be?'

The man seemed to notice him as if for the first time. 'Arl Eamon Guerrin, of Redcliffe, at your service' he spoke, throwing as much pomp into his words as he could. 'But whatever happened to Duncan, if you don't mind me asking?'

'Took a wound in the battle, lost his arm' he replied, unsmiling. He couldn't place his finger on the reason, but he simply did not _like_ this man.

'Terrible, terrible' he agreed. 'Well, if there is anything I can do for you commander, do not hesitate to let me know.'

'Actually, there is' Nordja replied, smiling now. 'We suffered losses in the battle, and have need of fresh recruits. We find ourselves without transport of any kind, and anything you could spare would be greatly appreciated.'

A frown flittered across his face, but was quickly hidden. 'Certainly, certainly. There are a few wagons in the supply train, help yourself to one. Alistair' he said, nodding curtly and riding away.

Nordja turned to the young ex-templar. 'Who was your friend?' he asked.

'He raised me, for the first ten years or so' he replied, still gazing at the Arl. 'Then his wife took a disliking to me, and I was shipped off to the Chantry.'

Nordja spat. 'C'mon on then, lets milk him for all he's worth' he said, striding towards the rear of the column, eyeing up a nice big supply wagon.

-oOo-

They made good time after that, and the Wardens managed to recuperate in the back, while Alistair and Carver, who'd had experience driving these things took alternate shifts. Jory pulled out a whetstone and sharpened their weapons, and Nordja and Morrigan talked about their lives in the Wilds.

By nightfall they were only a few miles from Lothering, and Nordja called a halt, wanting to arrive in daylight to pick up a bit of news and some new gear. They fed the oxen, and Morrigan ignited the firewood with a gesture, causing Alistair to drop his tinderbox in alarm and shoot her dark glances for the rest of the night. Nordja shot a goat in a nearby field, and dragged the carcass back for the hungry Wardens and the alluring witch.

They didn't speak while they ate, causing Morrigan to once again frown in distaste, while the rest of them were simply too famished to care about table manners. She shot them all barbed comments for the rest of the night, and Alistair, who would always rise to the bait, received more than his fair share.

Jory offered to take the first watch, and Nordja took the second, afraid to sleep.

As Alistair came to relieve him, the young Warden shot him a furtive glance and whispered in his ear 'We should wake the others and leave. Now. Without her' he glanced at Morrigan, sleeping soundly with her back to them. 'I don't think we should trust her. She's an apostate, she could be dangerous.'

Nordja wondered how long it had taken his fellow Warden to pluck up this courage. Smiling dangerously, he replied 'She saved our lives this morning, when I screwed up. And running away won't solve anything, she can track us through the skies. If you want to be shot of her, go slit her throat, while she sleeps.'

Alistair paled. 'Kill her?' he asked. 'I don't, that is, we shouldn't, I mean . . . '

'Put your hatred aside, we don't need it here. She is useful, she stays. She betrays us, which I think to be unlikely, we kill her. She helped us in the Wilds and she helped us on the road. If you can't get on, then ignore her. Goodnight, Alistair' he said, his authoritative tone putting an end to the matter.

He settled down opposite the dying fire, and looked upon her face. He was not surprised to see her eyes were open, and that she had been listening in. Her eyes were very peculiar, like a mountain cats, Golden and slightly slitted. It took him a while to drift off, and never once did she blink.

-oOo-

Waking in a cold sweat from the visions that sleep now brought, he roused the others and after a hurried breakfast, prepared to carry onwards to Lothering.

They arrived around mid-morning, passing a group of what looked like bandits, but after a snarl from Nordja, were left well alone.

Alistair glanced uneasily behind him. 'We really should do something about them. I don't feel right just leaving them to prey on others.'

Nordja grunted in reply. 'We can't solve all the world's problems. Our mission is more important. Someone else will deal with them, no doubt.'

Morrigan nodded in approval. Alistair said no more, but grumbled inaudibly for the next few hours.

The wagon pulled to a halt in the town square, and they disembarked.

Carver nervously approached him, and asked if it were possible to check up on his family.

'Sure' he replied. 'Take the day off, we'll come find you after lunch.' He turned to the others. 'Alistair, I want you to go to the Chantry, see if you can get us aid from that quarter.' _Bloody unlikely_, he thought. 'If not, check the tavern and find out what you can.'

He handed Morrigan a small bag of gold, and told her to bat her eyelashes until she got the best deal. She grinned appreciatively at this, and he handed her a list of things the Wardens needed.

'Jory, stay with the cart, I'll be back soon.' He turned away and marched across the bridge, intent upon his quarry. He had spied it from the road, having never seen the like before. He walked past the edge of town, smiling faintly as a band of Chasind landed themselves in hot water with the templars. _They are good for something after all._

As he approached the cage, he was able to make out what he was seeing. It couldn't be human, it was too big, nearly seven feet tall, skin the colour of ash, covered in rags and forced to stoop. Beneath him was a foul smelling pile of shit, the creature had obviously been there a while. The large, horned head turned in his direction, shining violet eyes looking intently into his. It opened its mouth, and with calm, almost detached voice, spoke.

'You are not one of my captors. I will not amuse you anymore than I have the other humans. Leave me in peace.'

Nordja was slightly startled. 'What are you?'

'A prisoner' came the response. Nordja thought he detected a faint smirk of the caged beast. 'I am in a cage, am I not? I have been placed here by the Chantry.'

Nordja looked utterly bemused. The creature sighed, frustrated.

'I am Sten of the Beresaad, the vanguard of the Qunari peoples.'

'Qunari?' he asked. Not one of the old tribes had ever seen the like, he was sure.

'You mock me' Sten replied, puzzled. 'Or you show manners I have not come to expect in your lands.'

'Figures' he replied. 'Lowlanders think they're entitled to everything. I am Nordja, of the Wilder clans.'

'Chasind?' Sten inquired.

'No' he replied firmly. 'Clayne tribesman. The Chasind are honourless rats who eat their own dead. We are nothing alike.'

Sten nodded, thoughtful. 'Though it matters little now, I will die in these lands, soon enough. I suggest you leave me to my fate.'

Nordja took in his filthy conditions, the way he had been treated like an animal. _Less than that, actually. No true ferelden would ever treat a dog this way_. Rage boiled inside him. Hatred of the lowlanders and their so-called civilised ways. _And they call me barbarian._

He took in the giant muscled arms and thighs, even though he had wasted away, he still looked strong enough to crush a man's skull. He made up his mind.

'I find myself in need of skilled help'

Sten looked bored. 'No doubt. What help do you seek?'

'As Commander of the Grey, I am sworn to defend this land against the Blight. We recently won a victory at Ostagar, but our numbers are depleted. I would conscript you; get you out of that cage. What say you?' he asked.

'Surprising. My people have heard legends of the Grey Wardens strength and skill. Though I suppose not every legend is true.'

Nordja took the barb without comment. In a way, he sensed he was being tested. 'What say you?' he asked once more.

'Perhaps if you told the Revered Mother that the Grey Wardens have need of my assistance, she would be persuaded to let me go. It seems as likely to bring my death as waiting here.' Sten replied, disinterested.

'Like I need her permission' he cursed, wrenching open the lock. The rusted hinge gave easily after a few sharp tugs.

'And so it is done' he said, stepping quickly out from the muck. 'I shall follow you into battle, in doing so I shall find my atonement.'

'If you like' said Nordja, eyeing a band of templars bearing down the road upon them. 'Welcome to the Grey Wardens' he said, loud enough for them to overhear.

They faltered, visibly, before one of their number stepped forward. 'I am Ser Bryant, commander of the Lothering templars, and protector of the Chantry. Do you claim this . . . beast, for the Wardens then?' he asked, glaring at Sten.

'I do' he replied, keenly aware that neither of them was armed, and they faced a full squad of armoured knights.

'I would advise you not to linger here, with that creature in tow' he ordered, albeit warily. 'We also know of the apostate you have brought within our midst, and if we didn't have our hands full with all the refugees, Grey Warden or no, you would face serious consequences. As it is, begone, and soon.' The templar turned smartly on his heel and marched off, leaving Nordja furious.

_Alistair_ he thought, fuming.

'May we proceed?' asked Sten, towering behind him. 'I am eager to be elsewhere.'

-oOo-

They found Jory by the wagon, with Morrigan in tow. She pointed to a sack of supplies and handed him back the purse, still nicely fat.

'Alistair betrayed you to the templars' he mouthed quietly. She grinned.

'No, he didn't. That group over there did' she said, pointing to a clan of shifty looking Chasind.

_My favourite people_ he thought with a savage grin.

'They recognised me from the Wilds, and thought to make a few coins. Ser Jory here calmly informed the zealots who we were, and they backed off.'

Nordja nodded his thanks, and sat down. Alistair did soon emerge, not from the Chantry but the tavern, a pretty red head supporting him. She wore the robes of a priestess, but Nordja took note of the pommel sticking out of her boot as she helped push him into the cart.

'Your friend has drunk a little too much, I think' she smiled, as the comatose Warden slumped in his seat, snoring softly. 'He told us all of the battle, and everyone insisted on buying him a drink.'

Morrigan chuckled. 'T'would seem that the brave Warden cannot handle himself as well as he might think. How cute.'

'He'll pay for it in the morning' said Nordja, not envying the hangover. He turned to the sister. 'Thanks for minding him.'

'Oh, but it was my pleasure' she laughed, prettily but slightly slurred. Evidently she had been at the ale too. 'Your friend told me you are looking for new recruits, yes? I had a dream' she stumbled slightly, but managed to right herself. 'The Maker wants me to join you.'

'I'm sure he does' he replied, knowing better than to argue with the intoxicated. 'Can you use that dagger?' He asked.

'But of course!' she whipped it out and hurled it towards a post, a good fifteen feet away. It struck a glancing blow and bounced off, but Nordja was impressed regardless. He couldn't have made that while sober.

As she scurried off to retrieve it, he looked around for Carver. He had still not returned. The priestess returned, and he asked after the Hawke residence. She gave him directions and he hopped down and strode across the bridge, finding the rather dingy shack at the edge of town. He knocked on the door, glancing up at the sky. Evening was drawing on, and while he had told Carver to take the day off, he had hoped the boy would have used his initiative instead of taking the piss. The door opened, upon an unwelcome face.

'Ser Bryant' he said, coolly. 'What brings you here?'

'More apostates, I'm afraid.' Nordja was surprised to see the templar looked genuinely saddened.

'Please Ser Bryant, you know us, you know we're not dangerous, please don't do this' begged a young girl, only a few years younger than him, eyes strained and puffy.

'It's a question of duty, not want' he replied, eyes downcast.

Nordja looked past him, and saw Carver sat next to the girl at a small table, while a man with a thin beard stood behind, holding their shaking mother. A mabari war hound looked on apprehensively, the almost human expression sobering indeed. Nordja bowed his head slightly, his clan revered the dogs.

Ser Bryant turned to him. 'These are good people, but Chantry law is clear. I cannot allow them freedom, when there are so many innocents to consider. They are brave, kind-hearted folk, and both accomplished mages.' He hesitated. 'You could do worse.'

Nordja nodded, solemnly. 'This isn't a release, it's a life sentence, as you brother will tell you. But should you choose it, I would recruit you both.'

The girl looked up at him, wiping away tears and thanking him profusely. The taller man nodded once while their mother flung herself at him and wrapped her arms around him, leaving him enough space to awkwardly pat her back. Flashes of his mother passed before his eyes, and he shook his head angrily._ Now was not the time. _

Ser Bryant left without a word, but with a faint smile on his face. Nordja thought him a decent man. _For a templar, and a lowlander besides._

-oOo-

The siblings didn't have a lot of possessions, they packed quickly and efficiently, and all were stood by the wagon just after sundown.

Along with Sten, he had recruited the sister, or Lelianna, as she introduced herself, and the Hawkes, who answered to Garret and Bethany, respectively.

With the wagon now sufficiently crowded, they set off, eager to be gone.

-oOo-

A few miles down the road, as they approached the Kings Highway, the Wardens stiffened, and glanced down the road. Without speaking, they sensed them.

Darkspawn. The oxen lowered, and the noise woke Alistair, grumbling about the noise, before he too felt the presence of evil.

Nordja held back, motioning to the two mages. 'Let's see what you're made of.'

Garret strode forwards confidently, his sister trailing in his wake. Sten followed, unarmed and unarmoured, yet without a trace of fear. Two small figures came running out of the darkness, screaming. The mages readied their spells, but paused at the sight of them, and let them pass. Two dwarves stumbled pass, one gasping for breath, and shouting about monsters, the other with a curiously vacant expression. A loud explosion tore his attention back towards the fight, and he saw Garret amongst the 'spawn, using his staff not only as a conduit, but as a battering ram, whirling like a dervish. Bethany gave a good account for herself, freezing some into shards and slowing down the rest, while Sten tore their brittle bodies apart with his bare hands. Lelianna fired into the melee, surprisingly accurate, before grasping a larger dagger and weaving amongst foes, cutting hamstrings and slicing throats. He smiled. _Not bad for a day's work._

_**Thank you once again to anyone still patient to read this, I hope you enjoyed it. Updates will be every few days, most likely. Please review (:**_


	10. A Blue and Orange morality

_***DISCLAIMER: this is a product of Bioware, and pure fan fiction on my part. Once again NOT mine, just having a bit of fun with it. Hope you enjoy.**_

_**A/N: bit of a slow chapter, I wanted to develop the relationships a tad more, as I felt the last chapter was a bit rushed. I know I said it was coming sooner to some of you as well, but I got a bit side tracked.**_

Not wanting to linger, and sensing more of the spawn pressing in, Nordja drove them onwards through the night until Lothering was far to the south. When the tugging sensation lessened and eventually disappeared, he knew they were safe. A reassuring glance from Alistair told him he was right. The Darkspawn were far behind them now. He eased on the reins, allowing the oxen to slow, and led them off the road and into a large clearing.

The cart pulled to a stop and the Wardens and their recruits disembarked. The Hawkes began setting up their tents, as far away as possible from the Qunari. The girl, Bethany, had not stopped shooting dark glances at the Bronze giant. If Sten noticed, he gave no sign.

The eldest Dwarf, Bodahn, did all the talking. The younger, Sandal, as Bodahn introduced him, gazed listlessly through the campsite, not appearing to take anything in. Nordja presumed he was in shock.

'Oh, thank you kind sirs for your timely rescue! If you hadn't come along, no doubt my boy and I would be, well' he drew off, awkwardly. 'The fact is you saved us. If there's anything I can do for you, just say the word!'

'What brings dwarves to the surface?' Nordja asked, curious.

'Oh, we've been trading and travelling for many years now, many years indeed. I'm a merchant by trade, and my boy here is a natural with enchantments!'

The young dwarf looked up at this word. 'Enchantment?' he asked, hopefully.

Nordja smiled sadly at the simpleton, before turning to the boy's father. 'We travel to Kinloch Hold. You are welcome to follow'

Not detecting any sign of taint, he left them to it. Words of comfort weren't his speciality.

-oOo-

_The Fade, once more. The Archdemon roared an endless tirade of insults and he could do nothing but stand there, paralysed with fear. How on Thedas was he supposed to fight this? This colossal beast, all muscle and blood and pus, covered in sharp horns and cruel spikes? He had yet to find a replacement weapon, and any he did find would surely crumple under a few blows. His enhanced strength as a Warden had ruined his previous blade, the constant wear of the battle had rendered it a pitiful excuse for a weapon. Surely when the dragon finally unleashed itself, it would not do so alone. The horde of Darkspawn surrounding him were a testament to that. Gibbering, screaming masses that stretched further than the eye could see. How could he fight his way through this with strength to fight at the end? It was impossible. And Ferelden would bleed. What he needed, he didn't know. He was doomed._

-oOo-

He woke, to find the stars were still visible. Dawn had not yet arrived, but judging from the snores around camp, it could not be far off. The priestess stood watch, and he felt a pang of guilt. He should have thought of that._ So many mistakes . . ._

'Go, get some rest' he said, quietly approaching. She smiled, but remained where she was.

'Oh, don't worry about me, my watch just began.'

Now that he wasn't preoccupied, he was able to truly see her for the first time. Her red hair shone in the moonlight, and large blue eyes stared deep into his. She wore an easy smile, flashing perfect teeth from behind perfect lips. Her robes were patched and frayed, but well cared for. This was a woman who went to great pains making the effort of appearance. He thought how he must look in comparison.

Dirty, blood stained robes, dented armor and a week's worth of stubble. Messy shoulder length hair soaked in sweat and blood and filth. Bags under his eyes from strained sleep. It struck him that his father wouldn't have recognised him. His heart turned to ash.

'I was wondering' she began, turning her eyes upon him, 'why did you recruit me? I realize I was slightly tipsy at the time, but from what your friend said, you're not the sort to believe in the Maker. My vision was real, you know.'

He didn't answer immediately, searching for a suitable answer. 'I brought you along, because I thought you might be useful' he replied, slightly uncomfortable. 'My Gods are not your Gods, and I care not whether this Maker exists. The truth is, Ferelden, and all of Thedas, is doomed. Usually the Wardens are more selective, but what with the Blight, I'm not willing to turn away help.' He looked past the treeline. 'Also, I don't agree with keeping people where they don't want to be. If you wanted to escape the Chantry, I didn't want to leave you there. If you wish to do something better with your life, go now. I will not hold you.'

She giggled, shaking her head. 'My time there was peaceful, I was not looking for an escape. A shelter from the storms, if you will. I spent a few years there in quiet harmony. Then my vision' she began to explain dreamily, but halted at his less-than-impressed expression. 'My vision warned me of the Blight, I will help in any way I can.'

He shrugged. 'Your combat skills are impressive. Whatever dreams you have, though, I doubt they are divine in origin.'

'Are you so opposed to the teachings of the Maker?'

He grimaced. 'Worship whatever you like. Our Gods teach us to be free. Yours to Dominate. It has always been thus, with you lowlanders. Tevinter, the Chantry, the Bannorn, Orlais and now the bloody Darkspawn. The clans just want to be left in peace.'

'But the Chant must be sung from the four corners of the world. Only then will the Maker forgive us our sins, and we shall return to his side, with the prophet Andraste.'

'And those who refuse? The clans, the Dalish, the dwarves? Would you slaughter us for your song?' He spat. 'Andraste is known among our people. She was once a slave, who became queen to Maferath, and strove to be a God. Her magic rivalled the magisters, and she enthralled the clans with her sorcery. She betrayed the people, and Maferath struck her down, saving us from further madness. Or so the legend goes. I know not where the Maker came from, perhaps he was added later.'

She looked horrified. 'That is blasphemy! How could you say such things? She saved us all from Tevinter, and the foul grasp of demons. It is she that sits by the side of the Maker, begging him to give us a final chance!'

He grinned, wickedly. 'She intended to overthrow the Imperium, yes, and seat herself there in the throne of power. They were weakened after two centuries of Blight. She chose her moment well.'

'She was _not_ a mage' the sister declared adamantly.

'Believe what you will, just don't force it down our throats.'

She didn't reply. They stood there, uncomfortably, waiting for dawn to break.

-oOo-

The next day passed in a grey blur. The sister, it seemed, was done talking to him, and whispered furiously to Alistair before they packed up camp. Morrigan strolled over, a wide grin on her leonine face.

'T'would appear that you and the Chantry girl had a falling out' she breathed, leaning in close. 'The poor Templar is getting his ear chewed off, but he seems to be enjoying it, perversely. I cannot blame him, she is a . . . pretty thing.'

'No my type' he frowned.

'No?' she asked, drawing closer, as her hand slid down the front of his chest, past his belt and _grabbed_. 'Tis something to think about then', her lips a hairsbreadth from his.

She turned away abruptly and sauntered off, grinning.

He shook his head._ Women . . ._

-oOo-

As the day progressed, they made good time. The dwarf took to the reins and while the cart was now uncomfortably full, Nordja decided to walk. He was joined by the eldest Hawke, who flashed him a grin, his faithful Mabari war hound trotting after them.

'You two are quite the item' he said, smirking.

'Morrigan?' he smirked back. 'She certainly seems keen.'

Hawke laughed, drawing curious stares from the wagon. He looked at him, sobered slightly. 'I wanted to thank you for yesterday. We were in Lothering for too long, and the Templars were sniffing around, but mother wanted to stay, and I didn't have the heart to uproot her. Father died last year, I don't think she wants to leave the grave untended' he said, murmuring slightly. 'If you hadn't come, I don't know what would have happened. We always gave everything to protect Bethany. It would have broken mother's heart to see her go to the Circle.'

'The Circle, that's the mage prison run by the Templars, correct?'

Hawke nodded with a visible shudder.

'I'm afraid that that is our destination' Nordja grimaced. 'If you would prefer not to come . . .'

Hawke sighed, shaking his head. 'We're with you now. All of us it seems.'

Nordja nodded. 'Carver, we have to keep. He was tainted by Darkspawn blood in the battle. If I hadn't conscripted him, he would be dead.'

Hawke looked back at the wagon. 'Then you have my thanks once more, it seems.'

Nordja shook his head. 'You and your sister are not yet tainted. This isn't a life I would choose for anyone. If you want to disappear, I won't stop you.'

Hawke laughed. 'Where would we go? My sister needs stability, and with you, the Templars cannot touch us. I owe you a debt, sir, and I will repay it.'

Nordja stopped him, looking deeply into his eyes. 'You don't know what this is. It's not a gift, it's a curse. If I had the choice, I wouldn't be here.'

Hawke smile wavered, but kept. 'Where would you rather be, then?'

Nordja thought of home. _His father, the Thane, and the warriors. Kaart, the wise woman. Shrieking children playing happily amongst the huts, and the dogs, with their own little hierarchy. _He remembered the dogs howling, drowned out by the cries of the Darkspawn. The warriors, fighting a last, doomed defence. The children lying maimed and bloody in the streets. His father's dying breath. His home, burning.

'I don't know.' He replied. 'The dog' he nodded, eager to change the conversation. 'He imprinted on you?'

'Yes' He smiled, proudly. 'We found him under a bush one morning, cold and frightened. The Bann had him thrown off the estate for being smaller than his siblings. Carver desperately wanted him, but he chose me.' He said, shooting a covert glance at his younger brother. 'I don't think he ever forgave me for that.'

'We revere them, in my clan. Or used to, anyhow.' He smiled, wistfully. 'What's his name?'

'Rabbit.'

Nordja stared incredulously. The ears were a tad large but it looked nothing like prey. _Lowlanders were insane_, he decided.

'Bethany named him, we couldn't get him to respond to anything else' he offered as way of an apology.

Nordja grinned. _All fear the mighty apostate and his faithful rabbit!_ It had a certain ring to it.

Hawke glanced back at the wagon. 'The Qunari' he began, apprehensive. 'Did he tell you why he was caged?'

He shook his head. 'I didn't ask. I assumed he had a run in with the Chantry.'

'You could say that' Hawke snorted, angrily. 'A family took him in, when they found him wounded. They knew about my . . . gift, and I helped nurse him back to recovery. When he awoke, he asked after a sword. We hadn't found anything, and told him so. Then, he stood up, calm as anything, and beat them all to death. Even the children.'

'He failed to mention that' he said, staring angrily at Sten. 'I'll have a word, soon.'

Hawke nodded. 'He seemed, not saddened, but empty, after the slaughter. He looked at me, those purple eyes boring into mine. I thought I was next. But he just slumped down, and waited. I called for help, and when the Templars came, he didn't struggle. I'm not sure what to make of it.'

'You didn't use your magic?' Nordja asked.

Hawke nodded. 'I was drained, after so many hours of healing. His wounds were extensive. I wish I hadn't bothered, now. They were good people, the Cassels. They didn't deserve their fate.'

'Few do.' He replied.

-oOo-

Night fell once again, and the Wardens and the recruits were both tired and hungry. Nordja considered making camp once more but just as he reached the decision, a spire rose over the next hill, and he caught a glimpse of water. Kinloch hold. It resembled some of the towers at Ostagar, ancient and majestic. Both Sten and Morrigan started a lively debate upon the reason such a large keep was built in the middle of a lake, and simultaneously arrived at the early magister's penis envy. Alistair and Carver took to fits of sniggering while Bethany and the sister looked appropriately scandalised.

Thankfully, there was a tavern by the shore. They piled through the door, Jory struggling to take orders from everyone at once, while Nordja surveyed the usual patrons.

'Rough bunch' he whispered under his breath. Many of the tables were empty, yet the glares they received failed to trouble them. After almost a week on the road, they were entitled to a night off. He pushed a sovereign towards the barkeep, confident it would cover tonight's costs and then some.

As he sat down to enjoy his first pint, Sten caught his eye and nodded towards the door. He had been meaning to discuss this with Sten, but he had put it off for as long as possible.

Sighing, he left his tankard behind and walked towards the exit, Qunari in tow. Outside, the wind tore into him, after the warmth of the Tavern. He glanced up at the sign. It read 'The Spoiled Princess,' and he smirked at the implications. The Qunari motioned him to the side, away from prying eyes.

'There is something we need to discuss' he spoke, harshly and to the point. 'The Saarebas you recruited, one of them is known to me.'

'Saarebas?' he asked, cocking an eyebrow. 'I don't speak your tongue.'

'That is your failure, not mine' he growled, 'We have no mages such as you, we have beasts in the form of men who perform tricks. We call them Saarebas, dangerous thing.'

'Funny, Hawke didn't butcher innocent children.'

Sten cast his eyes downward, his horns scraping the thatched roof. 'I cast aside my honour, it is as he says. Eight humans, in addition to the children.'

'Why?' he asked, horrified.

'I came to your lands with seven of the Beresaad, my brothers, to seek answers about the Blight. We made our way across the Ferelden countryside without incident, seeing nothing of the threat we were sent to observe. Until the night we camped by Lake Calenhad.'

He stared across the lake, alien features twisting in what might have been rage or sorrow.

'They came from everywhere: the earth beneath our feet, the air above us, our own shadows harboured the Darkspawn. I saw the last of the creatures cut down, before I succumbed to my wounds.'

Sten's eyes were deliberately downcast. Nordja had never heard him utter more than a few pithy lines, the Qunari was pouring everything into this explanation. Nordja suddenly realised how close to tears Sten was.

'I only know that when I awoke, I was no longer among my brothers. And my sword was gone from my hand. They told me they didn't know where it was. I killed them all regardless. They had no reason to lie to me. I panicked.'

'Swords don't last' he interjected, thoughtful. 'Sooner or later, it would have broken. Why not simply find a new one?'

'That sword was made for my hand alone' he rumbled, glowering, violet eyes afire. 'I have carried it from the day I was set into the Beresaad. I was to _die_ wielding it for my people.'

'That seems fairly rigid to me' he scowled back.

'We know who we are, and what we are meant to be' the Qunari offered simply.

Nordja sighed, wearily. 'Where did you fight these Darkspawn?' he asked.

Sten pointed to a spot half a mile down the shore. With a grunt, they set off.

-oOo-

They arrived to find another pair patrolling the site. One was stooped and low, hovering amongst the desiccated corpses, the other, younger man throwing sacks onto a cart. Unleashing a primal roar, Sten charged, bowling over the first man and pinning the second to the ground. He raised a mighty fist, about to beat the looter to death, when Nordja caught up and delivered a kick to his side. Groaning, he keeled over.

'Do you not learn?' he roared, grabbing the bronze giant by the throat. 'Have you no honour?'

'No' he croaked. 'Not anymore.'

Nordja released him, and he sat up, massaging his throat. He glared at the quivering men, who looked a stern word from fleeing in terror. Nordja cleared his throat.

'I thank you both for attempting to bury these fallen warriors' he declared, hoping they would be smart enough to figure out the release he was offering. 'My companion here would like his belongings returned. You may continue at his pleasure.'

The looters looked too terrified to disagree. Sten tore the sacks open, armor and other supplies crashing down and raising an almighty racket. Noticing a glint of steel in the moonlight, Nordja pulled a massive great sword from beneath a rotting skeleton.

Sten turned at the motion, breathing heavily. '_Asala . . ._' he whispered. Though the blade was coated in rust and smeared in dried blood, he held out for it as if it were a new born babe. Nordja passed it to him carefully. Turning away, Sten entered a series of exercises, swinging the blade with practiced control and rhythm. It was artful, and now he wept openly, if silently. 'Strange' he murmured, facing Nordja once again. 'I had almost forgotten it, completion. I would thank you for this, if I knew how.'

Nordja gestured to the looters. 'Keep your anger in check. I don't have time to worry about whether I can trust you or not while a Blight threatens the land. I want your vow.'

Sten nodded. 'You have it.'

Nordja gestured to the rest of the gear lying haphazard upon the ground. 'Salvage what you can, then back to the inn.'

-oOo-

They arrived shortly after midnight. Most of the party had rented rooms or had drifted off in the commons. The barkeep had disappeared, leaving the room empty. Nordja found an unattended tankard, drained it in one gulp, and dozed off on a bench. When he awoke, aside from the cramp in his back, he was also covered in sweat while the taint in his blood stirred softly. He was running out of time.

-oOo-

Avoiding questions as to his disappearance, he greeted the party outside the tavern, so they could see what was troubling him. Across the lake, smoke rose from the tower, the lower levels in flames, and the faint clash of steel and screams could be heard if they strained their ears. Flickers of eldritch light flickered from window to window, and even from here, there was a terrible stench of ozone. Something had gone terribly wrong.

'Right then' he called out, pleased when they snapped to attention. 'Who fancies a swim?'

_**A/N: In the last chapter I described Sten as a standard 'DAII' Qunari, with pale skin. This was a typo, he still has bronze skin, but with horns, as I find that retcon silly. And some may notice that Uldred is still at Ostagar . . . **_

_**So, that took longer than expected. I wanted to take a bit of time to build relationships within the group, and to try and break up the standard formula a bit. A few things I've noticed that occur in almost every fanfic:**_

_**The warden gets on with all the 'Good' companions.**_

_**Quests follow more or less as in game.**_

_**Flemeth is always killed.**_

_**The ashes are preserved.**_

_**The blight is defeated.**_

_**Now, while I'm not planning to break everything we love about the game, I don't want to tell the same story. So this is my official warning: AU for definite, things are about to diverge almost completely from cannon. Please Review (:**_


	11. A Mind of Its Own

_***DISCLAIMER: this is a product of Bioware, and pure fan fiction on my part. Once again NOT mine, just having a bit of fun with it. Hope you enjoy.**_

_**A/N: I gave the demons more power than they have in the game. I know the Warden is badass and all, but according to lore, demons are meant to be soulless horrors requiring many Templars to overcome. In game they're just mooks with a different look. **_

Neria Surana wept silently over the body. The apprentice had been young, far too young to know anything dangerous, or even know how to contact a demon. Jowan stood behind her.

'I'm so sorry'

She looked deep into his eyes. 'This is your fault' she cursed. 'They all died because of what you did. You are to blame for this evil.' Only to herself, she admitted: _As am I._

-oOo-

Daylen Amell started sweating. The energy involved in keeping up the barrier was slowly killing him. Beyond the doorframe, a monster looked deep into his eyes.

'Your soul is mine' it rasped, not a threat, a promise.

He felt himself weakening, felt the magic fading. The demon howled in excitement, clawing at the barrier. _A hand upon his shoulder._ He looked back into the tired eyes of the First Enchanter.

'I'll take it from here' he rasped. Daylen felt a colossal surge of power drive into the barrier.

The demon snarled, and turned away in defeat. There was more _prey_ down the stairs.

-oOo-

Nordja stood upon the prow. He had elected to leave behind both Garret and Bethany, and also Morrigan. He didn't want to lose any of them to the Templars, so they had remained behind. Carver sat uncomfortably next to Sten, who looked menacing in the scavenged rusty armor, recovered from his long-dead comrades, cleaning a huge serrated blade across his knees. Alistair and Lelianna were chatting quietly while they rowed, and he was pleased to see the young man come out of his shell a little. Jory sat silently working the rudder.

_It had been a stroke of good fortune, finding the boat. The Templars had stationed a jumped up little officer on the docks, the kind of man who revelled in his own authority, small as it was. He has refused to relinquish access to the tower, and had only relented after Sten had 'threatened' him._ Nordja grinned wickedly. He remembered the same sputtering face, no longer the cocky little shit but full of terror after his little 'swim.' _And in full plate too._ Lucky he had been there to pull him back out. _Taking his sword had simply been the icing on the cake. _The borrowed blade was smaller than he was used to, but it could be wielded with both hands if he gripped the pommel. It was better than nothing, he supposed.

They had left the drenched Templar waiting for them to return, as the boat only held five, and he had point blank refused to ferry the Templar with him. He had pushed his luck and brought six regardless, and although they hadn't yet sunk, the waters were choppy and the boat was low in the water. He was having to lean forwards slightly to counter Sten's massive weight at the rear, and leaning over into the deep abyss wasn't the best way to spend his morning, especially after another sleepless night. _He would have to ask someone about that. A potion for a dreamless sleep, perhaps, if the mages knew how. The Archdemon was always waiting when he closed his eyes, and after the joining, he had yet to wake refreshed. It was slowly driving him insane. _

As they approached the island, he saw the reason for the thick dark clouds of smoke. Templars were carrying frail bodies out beyond the main doors and throwing them onto a massive pyre. No priests were there to say words of comfort, and the labourers didn't give the dead a second glance. The boat slammed into the shoreline, and he leapt into the foam, dragging the boat up onto the beach as the rest of his party clambered ashore. Above them, the Templars looked uneasy, and a few caressed their pommels. A haggard, grey old man came marching down to meet them, weary disdain upon his face.

'And I want two men stationed within sight of the doors at all times. Do _not_ open the doors without _my_ express consent, is that clear?' he snapped to a following Templar, who gave a quick 'Yes sir' and hurried off to relay the orders.

'The doors are barred' Alistair murmured. 'Are they keeping people out . . . or in?'

'Now we wait, and pray' the Templar sighed. Nordja sized him up. Tall, strongly built, but well past his prime. Eyes of hardened steel, this was not a man to give ground. He had a harrowed look to him, as if the horrors of his nightmares had come to life. In the days to come, Nordja would realize exactly how true that observation was.

'What's going on here?' he asked.

'We are dealing with a very _delicate _situation' he replied, stressing the word. 'You must leave for your own safety.'

'No. I seek the mages' help to defeat the Darkspawn' Nordja said, resolute.

'I am weary for the Grey Wardens ceaseless need for men to fight the Darkspawn' he complained. 'But it is their right, I suppose.' He straightened up, glancing back at the tower. 'You'll find no allies here, the Templars can spare no men, and the mages' are _indisposed_.'

'What happened here?' he asked, as the body of a small child was thrown unceremoniously onto the flames. Lelianna let out a small squeak of outrage; Alistair gently took her aside and blocked her view. They all stood uncomfortably while her shuddering form let out quiet sobs, and Nordja felt a surge of guilt. He had completely misjudged the woman.

'I shall speak plainly. The tower is no longer under our control' the Templar stated. 'Abominations and demons stalk the towers halls, and the mages that unleashed them have barricaded themselves on the upper levels. They may already be dead. The Circle is lost; the tower has fallen.'

'How did this happen?' Jory asked, slightly incredulous.

The Templar grunted. 'You had better come in and sit down. It's a long story.'

-oOo-

Inside the antechamber, the Templar introduced himself as the Knight Commander. He sat down at a small table, and Nordja and the Wardens followed suit. 'Now' he began. 'The trouble started about a month ago. Two of our brightest apprentices, Neria and Daylen, underwent their Harrowing, and both passed in record time. They were incredibly skilled, and the Circle expected great things from them.'

'Sorry' Nordja interrupted. 'But what exactly _is_ a Harrowing?'

'The Harrowing is a test that every mage apprentice must go through to become a full Circle mage' Gregoir began. 'The test involves the apprentice entering the Fade through the use of lyrium. Once in the Fade, the mage apprentice must face, and subsequently overcome, a demon who wishes to possess the mage's body and enter the living realm. The demon is summoned by the mages of the Circle of Magi to the same part of the Fade the mage apprentice enters, and is promised a living body will be waiting for it when it arrives. If the mage apprentice succeeds in resisting the demon, they granted the title of mage and become a full member of the Circle of Magi.'

He sighed. 'As I said before, both of these apprentices passed very quickly. There is, perhaps, one mage every hundred years or so that does so. To have two in the same day is utterly unheard of. We were all astounded. There was another mage, Jowan, who we did not think possessed the aptitude to pass. He was also suspected of Blood magic, and we were planning to execute him, or force the Rite of Tranquility upon him.'

'What's that?' he asked. 'The Rite, I mean.'

'It means that they sever their connection to the Fade' Alistair explained. 'Demons can no longer possess them, but they lose all emotions in the act. It isn't . . . pleasant.'

Gregoir gave him an interested look. 'You have knowledge of these things?'

Alistair looked decidedly uncomfortable. 'I was trained as a Templar, before the Wardens recruited me.'

Gregoir nodded, curiosity satisfied. 'As I was saying. The two mages were roped in by Jowan so that he could destroy his phylactery and escape the Circle. We confronted them after they left the catacombs, and Jowan surprised us all by unleashing powerful Blood magic.' He paused, troubled. 'We didn't think he had it in him. We were all caught flat footed. Templars heard the commotion and cut off their escape, so they fled into the caverns beneath the tower. There was no escape, so we waited to see if they would hand themselves in.'

Sten grunted. 'You show leniency to those who deserve none. The Qun would never have allowed this to happen.'

Gregoir bit back a retort. 'The caverns are extensive, we couldn't just charge in. the rest of the Circle had to be pacified first, the two were well loved. Once we had control of the situation, we sent in a patrol, but it didn't get far. There were . . . things in there that forced them back.'

'What things?' asked Carver.

'Enormous spiders, larger than cave bears' the Knight Commander replied. 'With the area literally crawling with the things, we were unable to press on. We set a guard post but didn't try to press further. We lost too many men on that expedition, and I was convinced that the mages had met a similar fate. I was wrong.'

He sighed. 'Three nights ago, I was looking for Irving, our First Enchanter. He was not in his quarters, nor did anyone know where he could be found. I used his phylactery to track him down, and we discovered he was in the caverns. He had been supporting them, bringing them food and other supplies. How they survived the spiders, I don't know, but I can only assume they used Blood magic to hide themselves, making the creatures avoid them. When Irving emerged, we confronted him. He admitted to aiding them, and I had no choice but to execute him for his crime. But then . . .' he stopped, looking troubled, reliving the memory. 'The Circle, furious with us, first for Neria and Daylen, then for Irving, rose up against us, and during the battle, several demons were unleashed. In desperation, some had turned to blood magic and summoned them. The demons had turned on their supposed masters who had lacked the strength to control them, and the mages were forced higher and higher.'

The party sat, in quiet mounting horror, listening to his tale.

'We were unprepared for them on such a large scale, so I gave the order to retreat. The mages, likewise, fled upstairs, and sealed themselves in place. The demons now hunt between us, preventing both their escape, and our advance. I had no choice but to send for the Right of Annulment, and we began immediately. All of the young apprentices were executed' he paused, as Lelianna let out a cry of rage.

'They were children! Innocents! How could you?' she cried, shaming him. He looked around the table for support, but even Alistair's face had paled in rage. Nordja stared at him with the cold, bubbling anger that preceded murder.

'Now see here!' he shouted, suddenly aware of the large, heavily armed party that were glaring daggers at him. 'With the Veil torn, they were uncontrollable! We had no choice!'

'Did you sue for peace?' Nordja growled. 'Or did you simply keep killing to appease your creed?'

'There can be no peace for the Maleficar!' Gregoir roared.

'But they were only children!' Alistair cried. 'They didn't need to die!'

'Silence! I will not be spoken to like this! I am the cleansing flame, the right hand of the Divine! The instrument of the Maker's will! I am the gauntlet about his fist, the tip of his spear, the edge of his sword!'

_Madness _Nordja realised._ He was so caught up in religious fervour that the slaughter of innocents didn't register. This is the true face of evil. _

'We are done here.' He rose from the table. 'Prepare yourself.'

He drew his blade, slowly and full of menace.

Sten shifted. 'We are to give the Bas Saarebas freedom? This is not a wise course of action.'

'It's not up for discussion, Sten' he said firmly. Gregoir looked horrified.

'You _DARE_ impede us in our sacred duty? Even the Divine herself cannot object to this course of action! You would break the Nevarran accord, which has kept the peace for over eight-hundred years?'

'I would shatter it' Nordja snarled, thrusting forwards. His blade took Gregoir in the throat, and the man spluttered on the floor, gurgling outrage as his lifeblood spread across the stone tiles.

Nordja grabbed the Knight Commanders half-drawn blade and unleashed a primal war cry, diving into the fray, twin blades reaping a tide of blood. With his left hand he held the first weapon broadside in a guard position, knocking aside blows while Gregoirs' stolen sword slashed and hacked at the surprised Templars. Sten and Carver fought back to back, grim determination etched upon their features. Carver parried a strike and delivered a fearsome back handed blow which crumpled the helm of his opponent, splattering him in blood.

Lelianna danced among her foes, using quick, elegant strikes to bring down her adversaries, tears for the dead still silently cascading down her face. Alistair and Jory guarded Nordja's flank as he hacked aside the surprised warriors. More poured in through the great doors at the entrance, and they lost themselves in the slaughter. Within minutes, not a single Templar was standing, save Alistair of course.

'May the Maker forgive them' Lelianna wept. 'For I cannot.'

Nordja looked around the charnel house the tower had become. The servants and labourers waked in, silently. Each had a sunburst tattooed onto their forehead.

'That course of action was inadvisable' one said in a dull monotone. 'There will be repercussions.'

Alistair and Carver shuddered. Nordja realised what these people were. _Stripped of all emotion. The perfect slaves._ He stifled the outrage and pounded his fist into the wall.

'That could have gone better' he muttered.

A hand rested on his arm. It was the sister. 'No matter what others say, I believe we did the work of the Maker this day. Andraste would weep to see what has become of her children.'

'Gods who demand this aren't worth following' he said simply.

She glared at him. 'This was not what the Maker envisioned. These men lost their way, and suffered for it. We do the work of Andraste, I am sure of it.'

Sick of arguing with her, he turned to the rest of them. 'The Teyrn, and by extension, the King, charged us with rebuilding the army. The Wardens have always found allies in the mages, according to these' he said, waving the treaties. 'We push on, we kill every demon we find, and we rescue these mages. Any objections?'

Sten stepped forward. 'The slaughter of the Imekari is a shameful thing, but to allow the Bas Saarebas to walk free? This is foolish, and only suffering will come of it.'

Nordja stood his ground, even though he was a full foot shorter than Sten. Unblinking, he looked into those cold, pitiless eyes. 'The Blight will end, no matter the cost.'

Sten appeared satisfied, and nodded, once.

-oOo-

They pushed open the double doors to find the floors awash with blood and broken bodies. Templars and mages alike had clawed at the door while demons had torn them apart. Nordja didn't need to give the order to go quietly, they all held their breath. They rounded the hallway and came to a large room, littered with corpses. Among them dozens of shades glided, each an aura of pure malevolence, and as one, they sensed them. The company charged forwards, hacking at the spirits, but they were quickly overwhelmed.

'Form up!' he shouted, shifting to avoid a blow, and embedding his sword in the creature's chest. It tore away in its death throes, leaving him with only Gregoir's blade. They fought in a ring for what seemed like hours, though it could only have been scant minutes. More waves of the twisted spirits flocked into the room, and they eagerly swarmed around them, drawing closer and closer, ready to-

'HOLY SMITE!' bellowed Alistair, and a wave of pure energy flooded out of him, passing over their group, and knocking into the shades like a thunderbolt. They screamed in pain, reeling over, tearing at each other to get away.

Alistair slumped. He looked pale, and started shaking uncontrollably. 'Shouldn't have tried that' he gasped. 'Too many, and not enough prac-practice' he coughed up a bit of blood. Jory was rooting through the packs and pulled out a bright blue bottle, which Alistair took without a word. 'Bottoms up' he said, nose wrinkled in distaste and swallowed in one gulp. The effects were instantaneous. He stood up; complexion returned, stretched and rolled his shoulders, not even remotely ill.

'I didn't know ordinary people could drink that' Carver stated, brows uneasy. 'Lyrium is for mages.'

'And Templars, though the Chantry doesn't like to tell people about that' Alistair replied. 'It's not necessary, but it definitely helps in tight situations.'

'Don't exert yourself' Nordja said, continuing onwards. He glanced at a set of double doors, slightly askew, with a set of steps leading down. He gestured to the others. 'The two that started this, reckon they might be down there?'

Lelianna shook her head. 'The Knight Commander said the mages were upstairs. But I can feel . . . something.'

Nordja knew what she meant. There was almost a whisper from behind the door, the sound intensifying the longer he looked. He held his sword loosely at his side, descending the steps, and touched the thick oaken frame. There was a roar like thunder, and the doors exploded, flinging them like insects across the room.

-oOo-

Nordja awoke with the taste of blood in his mouth. He looked down and groaned to see a splinter larger than a dagger embedded in is thigh. Around him, the others were silent, chests raising and falling with a steady regularity. He guessed he had only been out for a few minutes. As he shifted his weight, his thigh sent fresh spasms of pain throughout him. _Where was a mage when you needed them, eh?_

He looked at where the doors had once stood, and felt his heart in his mouth. Standing between the ruined archway was a true demon, fire made flesh, clawing its way forward and screaming its hate. Nordja was closest, and the creature was almost upon him. He had no sword to hand. The demon pulled him up as if he were weightless, and he felt the tattered robes begin to singe. The heat was unbearable.

'_Wards weaken, the Watchguard of the Reaching fails! Shah Wyrd is free_!' it raised a great eye, lidless and wreathed in flame to look straight into his soul.

Nordja gasped in pain and yanked out the splinter, poor excuse for a weapon as it was, and drove it with all the force he could muster beneath the demon's chin. There was an explosion of power, and he crumpled under the pain. _Let it end _he thought._ Let me die._

-oOo-

The room eventually stopped spinning, and he unclamped himself from a foetal position with difficulty. There was no sign of the demon. His armor was burned and blackened, his robes burned away from the demonic grasp, and he felt like he had been punched by a God. His fist was still clamped to the splinter, and he was surprised to hear it fall with a loud _clang_. He looked down to find a greatsword, larger than Asala, with spidery writing down the blade. He drew it closer, and read the message. On one side of the blade were the words, 'You are the mirror.' On the other was written, 'Reflect.'

_No. Impossible._

_Yusaris._

_It couldn't be._

_The blade of kings, lost for all time under the waves, and yet, here it was, the edge as bright as the moon._ Trembling, he raised it, and swung it gently. _It moved like the wind, weightless. As if it were forged for his hand alone. _

The others were waking, wincing in pain. None were injured; he had been the only one close to the door. Merely the force of the summoning had blown them all back. Lelianna struggled to her feet, rubbing her bruised forehead. 'What happened?' she asked. 'All I remember is the whispering, and then the world ended.' She looked worried. 'Are we dead?'

He grinned. 'Not yet.'

He planted the tip of the blade through the broken tiles, leaning on its weight. He still couldn't believe it. _Yusaris the Dragonslayer_. He murmured the name, and the sister overheard.

'It cannot be' she breathed. 'The legend of the blade Yusaris predates Andraste.'

He smiled. 'You've heard of it?'

She nodded. 'There is a story behind that sword, you know.'

He nodded. 'The clans know the tale. We are taught it as children.'

'Will you tell it?' she asked.

He nodded, singing softly,

'_In the company of monsters he went,  
Down the empty wolf-roads after the dragon  
To the lands where the ice is like steel,_

And the air grows thin as a beggar,  
And every rocky path is strewn with the bones  
Of the lonely dead. There Dane dwelled,  
And fifty swords were worn to rusted ruin  
Before at last they found the cave of Fenshal,  
Ancient keeper of the mountains, bane of wolves.  
Dane sought a way in which the dragon might be felled,

Fiend of fire and talon, its scales  
Brighter than any warrior's mail, teeth greater than men,  
And all around the slumbering wyrm were bones:  
Wolves, men, beasts beyond counting.  
The fume of death frightened even the wolf pack,  
And Dane, desperate, crept into the cavern  
To seek the monster's death alone.

There, shining among the dead like a star  
His hand found a sword. Yusaris:  
Forged by the dwarf smiths for an Alamarri lord long ago,  
Waiting age after age to be taken to battle once more.  
And this Dane freed from the earth and struck  
At the eye of the dragon, still sleeping,  
With a swift, terrible blow.

And Fenshal woke, wroth, only to die.'

The sound of applause brought him out of his reverie. The companions, battered and bruised as they were had been listening. He took a sheepish bow, and staggered over. Jory helped bind a poultice to his injured thigh, and poured a little over his burns. It didn't heal them as a mage would, but it lessened the pain.

-oOo-

They continued through the library, finding more demons and abominations. This time there was no fear. No rage. The sword filled him with quiet calm, and he charged into the swirling melee, striking like an adder, his merest touch deadly. As the edge struck demonic flesh, the runes along the hilt of the blade burned with an inner fire, and he sent their souls shrieking back into the Fade. How he had acquired this legendary relic he did not know, but with every swing, every blow, every kill, he revelled in it. The carnage which he threw himself into no longer horrified him; there was only a calm detachment.

This newfound change was unsettling his companions, he could tell, but the sword told him to ignore them, to keep going, _more blood, more death_.

He paused, looking down at the blade. It withdrew the tendrils from his mind, settling once more into the blade, but he felt an offer there, an offer of power. He resolved that instant never to use it. His mind was his own.

They continued up the tower, but at a slightly slower pace from then on, as Nordja used his own skill rather than leeching on the sword.

-oOo-

They were so weary. The endless steps, demons at every turn, and no sign of the mages. A door stood in front of them. It was the only way forward. Sighing, Nordja pushed forwards.

As they filed in, he realised at once that something was terribly wrong. A black mist settled over a corpse, and pulsating with energy, it raised itself on dead arms. Milky white eyes gazed out contemptibly at them, but the being did not attack. In his hand, he felt Yusaris screaming.

'Oh look, visitors' it moaned slowly, full of dreary malice. 'I'd entertain you, but . . . too much effort involved.'

The demon kept speaking, and he felt his eyelids grow heavy. He was succumbing. There was a flash of magic, the demon was enchanting them, and he could do nothing. With the last of his strength, he whispered '_Yusaris_' and the blade roared into life.

It dragged him forwards, impaling the demon against the wall with such force that the bricks shattered into dust, and the demon screeched in agony, clawing at his chest, but the silverite plate held, while Yusaris pumped power into the wound, forcing the demon back, as it desperately tried to escape. The screams were horrific, and it began to melt. Bubbling away, the creature dissolved into a foul, slimy puddle.

Yusaris urged him to keep going, to keep killing, but with a will, he forced it back. He could still control it, though barely. It was a dangerous blade to wield. He had an idea now of why Hafter had thrown it into the sea.

He nodded at the door and they filed out and upwards, eager for the day to end.

-oOo-

Irving had heard the sounds of battle below for some time now. The Templars were on their way, and the barrier would fall to their cleansing powers. Everyone would be killed. He glanced back, taking in those who had shed blood to protect him. Everyone here had proved their loyalty to him, beyond a doubt. A tear glistened in his eye.

He looked at Daylen, working steadfast with Anders, both tirelessly casting through the long hours to heal the wounded, and comfort the sick.

He turned to Neria, arms draped around Cullen, one of the few Templars who had gone rogue. Young love made duty seem irrelevant, he supposed.

There was a trample of armoured boots on the stairs. It would be pointless to resist any further. He withdrew the barrier, resolving to unleash his most deadly spells on the first Templar through the doorway . . .

-oOo-

Nordja rounded the corner, company in tow. _They must be near the top by now_ he reckoned, and as he pushed open the door, a huge surge of electricity blew him off his feet. There was shouting, and confusion, but he no longer cared, exhausted beyond measure, from both the climb, the fighting and holding the blade in check. He closed his eyes, and let the Archdemon take him.

_**There was going to be more, but I thought I'd release it as two chapters and let you guys have this part.**_

_**A note on Gregoir – While in the game he comes across as a decent guy (for a Templar, anyway) in the first comic series he was a major asshat. **_

_**Yusaris – Every fantasy setting worth its salt has had a powerful item with a will of its own, rarely benevolent, ever since the one ring. What with the ties to the barbarians and being older than pretty much anything else in the setting, I thought it was perfect.**_

_**Sloth – I don't hate the Fade levels, but I didn't want to waste a chapter on something irrelevant to the main story.**_

_**The implications of this day will be far reaching, seeing as I want this to incorporate both games without actually going to Kirkwall, well, I'm fairly sure you can see that the Chantry won't look kindly on this. **_

_**Thanks for all the reviews, keep 'em coming! Seriously, be nasty, you've all been really nice, I want to know what you DON'T like about it. (:**_


	12. Unleashed

_***DISCLAIMER: this is a product of Bioware, and pure fan fiction on my part. Once again NOT mine, just having a bit of fun with it. Hope you enjoy.**_

A pulse of bright blue light, and he was awake. He looked up into Alistair's grinning face, surprised to find his friend had changed. His jawline was much thinner, and his hair had grown much longer, tied back with a rawhide chord. He smiled, and called out to someone behind him.

'Your friend is awake.' The voice sounded different, too.

Then, to Nordja's great surprise, another Alistair entered his field of vision, this one the regular Alistair. He shook his head and sat up. Old Alistair was in his battered chain, while new Alistair wore robes. It clicked. There weren't two of him; this was just a mage who happened to look similar. Very similar.

'What happened?' he asked, stroking his temple. He suddenly realized he was naked. Well, someone had draped a blanket over his nether regions, but it was still quite unsettling. 'And where are my clothes?' he asked, glancing around.

The room was carved in the old Tevinter styling, high stone walls with intricate carvings of dragons in the archways. Small windows in the ceiling let in a little light, but it wasn't overly dark, the room brightened by several glowing stones somehow floating unsupported. It lent the room an eerie glow, looking almost like the Fade. Surrounding him, aside from Alistair and the mage who resembled him, were young men and women, robed, looking apprehensive, and a little scared. He rolled his shoulders and swung his legs off of the table, making sure to keep the blanket in place.

Alistair's double spoke up. 'You're in the Harrowing chamber. Irving mistook you for a Templar, and he damn near killed you. You've been unconscious for two days, and as for your clothes, we had them burned. They were filthy.' He smiled. 'Flora nearly cried when we told him to do it, he _hates_ dirt. And you were covered head to toe. Do you _usually_ swim through corpses?' he asked, still smiling.

Nordja smiled. 'Only on Tuesdays.'

'Flora?' asked the real Alistair. 'I thought his name was Finn.'

'His _real_ name is Florian Phineas Horatio Aldebrant, Esquire. Don't forget the Esquire. Obviously that's a bit of a mouthful, and we got sick of remembering all that so I dubbed him Flora. He prefers Finn. Can't imagine why' he grinned. 'I'm Anders, by the way. And before anyone else, let me say thank you for killing Gregoir and the rest of those bastards.'

'No love lost between you then?' he asked.

'Well, Cullen can be alright, but he's only here for Neria. The rest of them were just plain nasty. No one will miss them.'

'The Revered Mother might' said Alistair, slightly worried.

Before he could say anything, Anders thrust a pile of clothes into his arms. 'Put those on, Irving wants a word. He wouldn't say what about.'

With that, he turned away and was soon lost amongst the crowd. Nordja looked at the cloth pile. It was a handsome set of magi robes, grey, with blue trimmings and silver buttons. Someone had also sewn a griffin emblem over the heart. He smiled.

-oOo-

Irving was sat at a bench, deep in conversation with two younger mages when he found him. The old man had let both his hair and beard grow wild, and beneath his bushy brows, his eyes looked haggard indeed. He carried a very ornate staff with a swirling nimbus of power in the tip, propped against his shoulder. By his side, lying almost innocently on the stone bench was Yusaris. A quiet cough announced his presence.

The First Enchanter turned. Noticing him, he dismissed the younger mages, both of whom gave Nordja curious glances. One was a man who bore a striking resemblance to Hawke, but lacking a beard. Warm hazel eyes followed him as he left. The other, a small elven woman, shot him a dark look. Her face was young, but her hair was purest white, and bound in an elaborate bun. Her eyes were cold as ice, and he was reminded almost of the Great Plains south of the Korcari, the endless leagues of snow, where nothing can survive. She carried herself with an aura of power, absolute and unwelcoming. Irving motioned to the bench, and he took the seat vacated by the pair.

'Before we begin' the First Enchanter grumbled, 'I owe you an apology for striking you. Had I waited half a second more I would have seen you were no Templar.'

Nordja shrugged. 'Accidents happen.'

'Luckily, Anders was on hand. For such a troublemaker, that boy knows his healing. Almost as good as dear Wynne, now that I think of it. Sadly, he lacks the correct temperament for a Senior Enchanter. After his last escape attempt, Gregoir wanted his head. I managed to talk him down to a year of solitary confinement, but what with the rebellion, we managed to break him out, he of course was only too happy to defy the temp-'

Nordja was content to let him ramble on, but his drifting eyes had apparently betrayed him. Irving harrumphed, and got to the point. 'Now, as to what happened. Your companions tell me you killed Gregoir, and the rest of the Templars. Is this true?'

'You doubt their word?' he asked.

'No. the Tranquil confirmed it. I simply wanted to hear your reasoning behind the act.'

'He murdered children. What more need be said?' he asked.

Irving frowned. 'Gregoir always put the Order first, but he was usually fair. I can only suspect my betrayal drove him over the edge. There was once a time when we called another friend.' He paused. 'But that was a long time ago. There will be serious repercussions, you realize? The Chantry will not accept this. All the mages here will be killed, and both you and your order will also likely be punished. Some of us could escape, but our phylacteries will eventually betray us.'

'Then don't run. Fight' Nordja said simply. 'I came here to enlist aid against the Blight. Come to Ostagar, talk to the king. I believe him to be a good man' he said, the lie coming easily. 'What say you?'

'Would the crown accept us? Surely the king would not wish to antagonize the Chantry.'

Nordja shrugged. 'Maybe, maybe not. You'll never find out if you don't ask. In any case, it would be unwise to remain here. The tower presents an easy target. If the Circle joins the army, you'll have protection, and they'll have a stronger force. The healers among you alone would do wonders.'

'True' Irving mused. 'But we may also find opposition among the troops. Ordinary men hate and fear magic, and most adhere rigidly to Chantry teachings. Technically, we are all apostates now, along with some . . . maleficarum' he said, glancing at a handful of young men and women huddled in one corner.

'That's because they haven't seen you as people. Give them half a chance, and most will do the same for you. If you're looking for undivided support, you'll be waiting a long time' he countered.

'True, very true' he smiled. 'So be it. For better or for worse, we come. The Grey Wardens shall have their allies, Maker help us all.'

Nordja shook his hand. 'May the Mountain Father attest to our pact. If we were both Thanes, it'd be in blood, but you lowlander mages frown on that, I think.'

Irving chuckled. 'Only the weak, or the very desperate turn to forbidden Blood magic. Now, about this sword' he said, gesturing to Yusaris. 'This is an ancient blade, and powerful. It has a will of its own, and malevolent intent. The watch bound it long ago, but evidently the seals wore off.'

'Watch?' he asked. 'As in, the Watchguard of the Reaching? The demon mentioned them. He said that they failed.'

'Shah Wyrd' Irving muttered, face dark. 'The watch knew the power of the blade, and the damage it could do in the wrong hands. They bound it to the Fade, and Yusaris gave itself a new form, a name, a being. Shah Wyrd _is_ the blade, or was, anyhow. It knows nothing besides rage and blood, and so, when we accidently tore the Veil, it managed to manifest itself as a demon. The watch thought to send it beyond this realm, but things that powerful have ways of returning. Our Tranquil have been working on a Nullification Rune, but they can't seem to find one powerful enough. If they find a way to halt its influence, I would like your permission to do so. If not, it may eventually consume you.'

Nordja nodded. 'The power has been useful, but I don't want to rely on it. Work your enchantments.' He picked up the blade, and felt the familiar tugging sensation. 'Until then, I will have to keep it in check.'

Irving nodded. 'It is decided then. I will gather the mages, and let them know what to do. It should not take more than a few hours for us to leave, we have few possessions. Commander.'

Nordja rose, and went to find his companions. In his hand, Yusaris hungered.

-oOo-

The silverite armor had been cleaned and polished to a mirror shine. Someone had taken a great deal of time to work out all the little dents as well. He picked up the cuirass and buckled it over his new robes, followed by the spaulders. The greaves fit snugly over his boots, and he slid the thick leather bracers over his gloves, noting that even the studded knuckle plating had been cleaned. He looked in every inch the Grey Warden Commander he was supposed to be. Yusaris was sheathed and he strode out into the hallway, to find Jory waiting.

'Commander' he saluted. 'The Wardens and our recruits have re-stocked, we scavenged the Templar gear and raided the store rooms' he said. There was an edge of discomfort at these words; apparently the proud knight took no joy in raiding.

_Strange. The lowlanders usually jumped at thievery._

'The rest of the party is waiting in the entrance hall. We await your orders.'

'Fall in then' he said, setting off at a brisk pace. The tower stunk of death.

-oOo-

Leliana had found a new set of leathers. Black with scale underneath, and a padded red under tunic, decorated with the golden sunburst of the Chantry. She glared at him as he entered, daring him to comment. He shrugged. It looked sturdy enough, and she wasn't a full Warden yet. Alistair and Carver had swapped their armor for Templar plate. They had had the sense to remove the heraldry, however, and simply looked like heavily armoured knights. The sword motif on the cuirass couldn't be helped, he supposed, but he wasn't going to be petty about it. Sten hadn't taken anything, merely polished his Qunari armor as best he could, the solid dark steel over an inch thick in places. The armor was unusual, to say the least. The chest plate covered only that, leaving a thick, studded leather brigandine to protect his gut. His legs and shoulders were completely encased, but only his right forearm was protected, his left hand bare. He had given Asala so much care that the sword _shone_.

'Our plan of action?' asked Sten, glowering from the corner. He wasn't sure if he was always this surly or if it were due to the mages.

'Once the mages have assembled, we make our way back to Ostagar, to present them to the king. There, you will undergo your Joining' he said, motioning to him and Leliana. 'Bethany and Hawke, too. After, I think we'll try Orzammar. Any questions?'

'How will we transport them? The boat was too small for our party; if you intend to move everybody then we will be here at least a week. This delay is needless, we should press on.'

Nordja was struck dumb. How on earth did he expect to get everyone across? It would take days, at the least, and there was a supposed force of Templars coming from Denerim, for the Right of Annulment. They could be here any day. And he needed to present the mages to the king, lest the Chantry interfere. This was going to be problematic.

'Crap' he managed.

Sten snorted, muttering darkly under his breath.

-oOo-

Neria found herself outside the tower for the first time in years. She hadn't seen the sun, or stars, or felt the rain, for longer than she cared to think. The wind alone was a blessing. She wondered how long it might last.

The doors of the tower creaked open, and she saw the Grey Warden Commander exit. He didn't notice her, simply walked to the shoreline, gazing about. He took a long, hard look at the old bridge, before frustration got the better of him, and he kicked a stray rock. A yelp rang out, and he collapsed on the spot, clutching his foot and cursing. She smirked.

'Problem?' she asked, walking over.

'Where my foot used to be, there now floats a thousand shards of bone' he grunted, massaging his boot. 'It's fine. Really. I'm just being stupid.'

She snorted. 'Idiot. First you bring the wrath of the Chantry down on us, now you draft us into this foolish war.'

He looked straight into her eyes, which surprised her. Many could not, not when she was in a temper. 'I didn't start this, mage. You did.'

'Irving told you?' she asked. 'Or Anders? He likes to gossip.'

'Gregoir, actually.'

'Figures' she muttered. 'Would you have let a friend die? Could you watch them kill him, or worse, strip him of everything that made him a person? I will not stand idly by and do nothing.'

'Do not speak to me of loss. The Darkspawn slaughtered my clan. My father died in my arms, and I was dragged, kicking and screaming into this war, same as you.'

She faltered, but no apology would ever pass her lips. She was far too proud. 'I'll go and fetch Anders, if you wish. For your foot.'

He shook his head. 'It's fine. Nothing broken.'

'In that case, I'll take my leave' she said, turning away. 'Unless theres anything else you need?'

'Not unless you can figure out a way to get everyone across the lake by tonight' he mumbled, staring bitterly at the opposite shore.

She grinned. 'I just might, you know.'

-oOo-

It took longer than Irving had stated to gather everyone. The mages were determined to bring as much as they could carry, and had brought half the library with them. By the time the sun had begun to set, the last stragglers were exiting the doors. Neria was huddled with Irving and a few other senior mages, whispering animatedly. Nordja hoped her plan would work.

He turned to the others. They were waiting, expectantly. Neria had not told him the details, either, and he had absolutely no idea what was about to happen. The group of mages stood along the shore, each with a bowl of lyrium before them. As one, they inhaled the fumes, and started chanting, twisting their hands in practised motions, and there was a sudden stench of ozone in the air. The waves ceased lapping against the shore, slowly at first, before coming to a complete halt. The air rapidly grew cold, and flakes of snow started to form. The wind picked up, rising to a howl. With triumphant ululation, the spell was cast, and a wave of ice flooded out across the water, sixty feet across. Nordja was utterly gobsmacked. Never before had he seen such power. Behind him, the Wardens let out gasps and murmurs of wonder. Sten hissed.

_This is true power_ he thought. The bridge was beautiful, ramrod straight, and as the sun sank beneath the horizon, it was bathed in orange light, looking like fire on the water.

'Quickly now' gasped Irving.

The mages looked hesitant, so Nordja led the Wardens across first. The ice creaked a little, but held fast. 'Spread out a bit' he said, motioning to his crew. The heavy armor might crack the ice if they bunched up. And that simply would not do. They walked slowly, testing the weight. After thirty paces, he deemed it safe enough, and managed a brisk pace, walking faster than he usually might. The mages followed suit, and the bridge held. It took just over a quarter of an hour to cross, and by the time he reached the shore, the bridge was starting to melt. Water lapped constantly over the sides, and no-one wanted to be on the edges, leaving everyone bunched up. When they were perhaps forty feet from the shore, the Templar from the docks came charging at them, thin, reedy voice screaming at them. Nordja glanced at Sten.

'You know, I don't think he got the message when you last dunked him.'

Sten's lips almost twitched. 'Perhaps I will remind him then.'

The Qunari stood, waiting patiently, before the idiot got within sword length. Dodging the clumsy blow, he shifted his balance slightly, and the charge came to an abrupt halt as the Templar slammed into a wall of immovable iron hard muscle, and collapsed into a heap. Sten grabbed the scruff of the collar and dragged him to the side, before delivering a kick to the gut that sent him over the edge. There was a loud splash, and then no more.

'Was that really necessary?' asked Alistair, frowning.

'No' replied Sten. 'But amusing.'

As they made the shore, Bethany stood waiting, eager to embrace Carver. He looked like he would rather be anywhere else, and gave her an awkward pat on the back, as she threw herself into his arms.

Hawke stood there with his usual grin, while Morrigan stalked towards him, looking decidedly unhappy.

'Three days! I leave you alone for three days, and this is what happens? Surely the Templars did not permit the entire _bloody_ Circle to slip the leash?'

'Nope' he replied. 'They're all now suffering from a very bad case of dead.'

Gesturing, he drew her off to the side, behind an old boathouse. 'Fool!' she snapped. 'They will come after you for this. It will not end well, mark my words!'

He leaned in close, talking quietly. 'The Chantry has gotten lazy. However strong they think they are, their best warriors aren't up to much. We defeated the entire garrison.'

'They will send an _army_' she stressed, fire in her golden eyes. 'And they will never stop hunting you for this.'

He shrugged. She slapped him._ Hard._

'And what's the real reason you're angry?' he asked.

She gave him a look that would curdle milk. 'Never leave me in their company again. The girl whines, and the fool never stops with his jokes. They're worse than Alistair's. She shuddered. 'Three days of that. Never again.'

'You're just a little ray of sunshine, aren't you?' he grinned. She slapped him again.

Then she kissed him.

It was rough, and angry. She grabbed his hair, and dragged his head down, biting his lip in her haste. Their bodies were pressed tight against each-others; he could feel her warmth and returned the kiss with equal passion. Then, as sudden as it started, she pushed him away, still glaring daggers.

'Bastard' she snapped, and walked off.

_What just happened?_

Rubbing his sore cheek, he followed.

-oOo-

Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir was having a bad day. Bad week in fact. The Wardens had gone, leaving a cripple in charge, and Eamon had arrived. _Eamon._ If ever there was a man he hated more than the Orlesians, it was him. His ability to worm his way into favour with the king frustrated him to no end. Even now, while the men sworn in their service were out there, starving, they were having a feast, in the middle of the day, for no bloody reason other than they could. He had heard whispers that Connor might be a mage, but he had been unable to pursue leads_. Ah well_. He would've stuck Eamon on the front lines, but the man preferred to command his troops from his tent. _Bloody coward_.

Duncan was also at the feast. Cailan was still convinced the sun shone out his arse, and the Orlesian was only too happy to lap it up. Good thing he wasn't in command anymore. He was still livid that Duncan had kept secrets from him. _The bastard. As if he had any right to._ Cailan had been miffed, slightly, but had gotten over it instantly when Duncan came limping into view, harping on about his bloody arm. _Well._ He hadn't even mentioned it, Cailan had been the one to go on about it. _Serves him bloody right, too._

He put down the wine, as his head was starting to swim. He was regretting the charge now. Better he had left Cailan to die in _oh so_ glorious battle, than suffer his company. The boy was far too easily lead. And now, Eamon had his claws into him.

'By the Maker, what a mess' he grumbled. The Darkspawn had camped maybe half a day's march away, but there were too many to chance an assault. Even if they succeeded, the camp was an unholy mass of filth and disease, his scouts had reported, and many would die from corruption. For now, they both sat on their arses, waiting to see who would gain the first advantage. He didn't want to think about that.

'My Lord' his guard said, ducking into the tent. Rolph, maybe. 'A visitor. She says she knew you from the occupation.'

The only woman he could think of was Mother Ailis, and she had died two winters ago. Curious, he nodded.

The woman that entered his tent was not Mother Ailis, but he recognised her instantly. Though her hair was now pure white, like snow, and bound to resemble horns, and now she wore studded leather robes with thick, archaic plate covering her arms and legs, and though whatever wrinkles she had once possessed had faded, her eyes were still exactly the same as he remembered. Cold and calculating, and very unnerving.

'What do you want, _Witch_?' he snarled, standing up and reaching for his sword. She wasn't fazed, smiling with that irritating smirk that he thought he had forgotten.

'Why, to serve _my_ country, of course.' She circled around him, ignoring his blade pointed at her. 'Things are changing, and far more rapidly than I would like. The Darkspawn threaten even me.' She sat down in _his_ chair, looking at him from behind _his_ desk. 'I thought you might be drunk, so I brought you this' she said, carefully placing a small vial on the table. 'You're going to need it.'

'Why on Thedas would I trust anything _you_ gave me?' he growled, glancing at the poison. He was fairly sure it was poison.

She cackled. 'Because the Darkspawn have spent the last week tunnelling. By now, they should be under the main camp. I estimate the attack will begin, _oh_, let's say now.'

A scream rang out.

He grabbed the bottle, downed it and raced outside, bellowing orders.

Flemeth joined him. The Witch of the Wilds had not gone to war in a very, very long time.

She was looking forward to it.

_**Dun Dun Duuuun! I do love a cliff hanger. **_

_**Leliana and Sten are wearing their armor from the Sacred Ashes trailer. Also, I've been spelling her name wrong for the last three chapters. Oops. **_

_**Please review! (:**_


	13. Return to Ostagar

_***DISCLAIMER: this is a product of Bioware, and pure fan fiction on my part. Once again NOT mine, just having a bit of fun with it. Hope you enjoy.**_

'Enchantment?'

Sandal held Yusaris, frowning over the blade. Nordja waited patiently while he examined it. The young dwarf reached into a sack full of what looked like pebbles, but each a different and fantastic colour. Along with the usual greys, browns and whites, there were deep reds, bright purples, dirty greens all overlapping in a chaotic jumble. He pulled out a large one, a blue so dark it were almost black. With a crafting hammer and chisel, the boy started carving away, humming tunelessly as he worked. Both Nordja and the Tranquil mages watched in complete silence while he worked, though he suspected that silence was typical of their behaviour.

Beaming, Sandal held up the finished rune, proud of his work.

'Interesting' said a woman behind him, in the same monotone he had come to expect. 'He has overlapped a Barrier rune with one of Resistance, to Spirits I believe. I did not think such a thing would be possible.'

'Neither did I' replied a young man, scratching absently at the sunburst on his forehead. 'According to previous research, a rune stone can hold but one rune. Any more and the magical nature overcomes the base structure and shatters it. He is indeed, a savant.'

'Enchantment!' he cried happily, spinning around and dancing a mad little jig. Nordja allowed himself to chuckle. For the last four days, as the convoy of mages made their way back to Ostagar, the Tranquil had poured over Yusaris, trying absolutely everything to quell the raging power within the sword. Bodahn had casually mentioned his son, and seeing no better option, Nordja had asked Sandal to take a look. In minutes, he had accomplished the impossible, the Nullification rune was set. Now, holding the rune close to one eye, Sandal checked for faults, scraping away at imperfect edges. Finding no more, he carefully uncorked a vial of lyrium, and with a steady hand, poured a few drops into the depressions, until there was an even coverage. The bright blue of the glowing lyrium offset the darker stone, and it glowed with an eerie light, sending shivers down Nordja's spine.

Nonchalantly, Sandal tossed the rune to the nearest Tranquil, before running off, giggling. He and Rabbit, the Mabari, had become fast friends and had their own secret little adventures whenever they could.

Nordja turned to the Tranquil. 'Now that you have the rune, can you apply it?'

The former mage nodded once, still gazing intently at the rune. They slid off into their shared tent, taking Yusaris with them. The process of enchanting is lengthy and dull, Nordja knew, after watching them fiddle around with his armor for hours on end. As a reward for freeing the Circle, Irving had commanded the Tranquil to work their enchantments on both his and his companion's weapons and armor. They were now a truly formidable team. He left them to it.

-oOo-

Daybreak found them a few miles to the north of Lothering. Bethany was looking forward to passing through the village once more; she had not expected to see her mother again so soon. Nordja, however, was brought up short by the thick, billowing clouds of smoke, hovering dangerously over the village. Something had gone very, very wrong here.

'Alistair' he called, the young Warden making his way through a mouthful of soggy toast to reply. How anyone could make toast soggy, was beyond him. Alistair was simply awful around the campfire, and they had learned many nights ago not to trust anything that they could not identify. The last straw had been when Hawke unearthed a large talon in a radish. Now, Alistair was forbidden to cook, aside from feeding himself.

'Wot ish it?' he asked, swallowing quickly. Nordja gestured to the smoke on the horizon.

'Damn. That can't be good.'

'Get the Wardens up and out. We'll scout this out, and call in the Circle if we need them. And get someone to fetch my sword.'

Within minutes, the party was assembled. He was taking the Hawke brood, along with Leliana, as they all knew the village intimately. Jory was also accompanying them. Alistair was waiting behind, Morrigan and Sten in tow. Sten, because he doubted the townspeople would react kindly to his presence, and Morrigan . . .

Ever since their kiss, she had gone out of her way to avoid him. She was irritable, and twice as waspish as before, were it possible. He wasn't going to chase her down and demand answers, but neither did he want to do battle if they were at odds. So, to the delight of none, she remained behind.

He could also hear the clash of swords and the screams of the dying now. Whatever was happening, it wasn't good.

-oOo-

They made their way through the outskirts of Lothering with caution. Everywhere they looked, windows were boarded up and no-one responded to shouts. Aside from the sounds of fighting, it felt as if the village was abandoned.

'Bethany?'

Turning at the sound, Nordja noticed the mother of his recruits approaching. She looked far more worn than she had the previous week, and fear was etched upon her face. The woman had seen the horrors of war.

'Mother!' the young mage cried, embracing her. 'What happened here? Where has everyone gone?'

'The Teyrn and his men arrived last night' she replied, pulling Hawke into her grip as well. Carver seemed content to wait on the fringes. 'Ostagar has fallen, and the Darkspawn arrived hot on their heels. They've been holding them at the bridge, but I don't know how much longer they can last. Everyone who didn't make a run for it has bolted themselves in, and I would have run too, but I couldn't leave without knowing that you were safe! _Oh,_ my poor babies!'

Nordja pulled Leliana aside. 'Run back to the convoy. Get them here with all speed, now!'

Nodding, she turned on her heel and started running. He turned to the woman. She had aged well, he noticed, aside from her greying hair, her face was still youthful, even beautiful, in an older, more defined way. 'My lady' he spoke, careful to use a title. According to Bethany, she had once been a noble woman in someplace called Kirkwall.

'Oh please, it's just Leandra now' she replied, smiling sadly.

'Leandra. You need to find a place of safety. Quickly now.' He looked at the others. 'The rest of you, with me!'

They ran towards the fight, leaving a shell-shocked Leandra kneeling in the dirt.

'Be safe!' she called out to them. Only Bethany looked back.

-oOo-

Loghain was more tired than he had ever been in his life. During the initial assault, the Darkspawn had surged every which way, and after the hard fighting at the mouths of the tunnels, they had been flanked from behind, and broken. If it were not for Flemeth's warning, they would have been taken unaware, and been utterly destroyed. As it was, things were still looking bad. Cailan and Eamon had disappeared; some were saying that they were trying to hold up in the tower of Ishal, others quietly thought them dead. He was in no position to know, and frankly, he was past caring. Ostagar was lost, outright. He had taken the war to be as a pissing contest between two Mabari, who was biggest, with the shiniest teeth. But they had been clever. Too clever for him. This was truly a Blight, and all his experience with the enemy had left him nothing. What was left of the army stood beside him, the shield wall straining, about to break. The horde was relentless, and even the sacrifice of Maric's Shield had bought them only a day.

He sniffed, angrily. Cauthrien had rallied the men instantly, and when it had become clear that the battle was lost, she had led the company in a last stand at the foot of the Kings Highway to buy time for him and the rest of the army.

That had been four days ago. Four long days of hard fighting and hard marching. He had pushed both himself and his men way past their limit, in a fighting retreat, making the enemy pay for every inch. But it hadn't been enough. Resigned, he had opted to face them at the gates of Lothering, to sell his life for his country, and make the bastards earn their passage over the bodies of their dead.

He looked over his shoulder at the sound of a war cry, unholy in its pitch and full of hate. It was strangely familiar.

-oOo-

Nordja led the Wardens into combat, smashing the lines of the 'spawn with unchecked fury. The Teyrn was indeed trying to hold them at the small bridge, a natural chokepoint, but the Darkspawn had simply thrown their dead into the river, and were now able to walk across a mountain of corpses to reach the foe. A shield wall held, but only just. Pushing his way to the fore, through the struggling defenders, he reached the frontline, and carved open a space for the Wardens to do their bloody work. He and Jory used the length of their swords to keep the horde at bay, buying some time for the men behind to catch their breath, while Carver did the same further down the line, Hawke trailing his staff in a fiery whirlwind of destruction.

Nordja chopped at a Genlock, and watched its head cave in with grim satisfaction. He spun the sword in an arc and smashed the flat into an oncoming Alpha, halting its charge completely. Jory swung and dismembered it, the Darkspawn opening from hip to shoulder. He took another on the temple using his pommel, and hacked the legs out from underneath it. Nordja was impressed. Jory was finally fighting as he should, with no fear. _Well_. The pained look on his face told him he wasn't completely without it, but it was a definite improvement from is trek into the Wilds. His lapse of concentration allowed a Shriek past his defence. With a God-awful howl, it raked at his face, and he was dimly aware of burning, terrible burning, and wanted nothing more than to curl up in a ball. Fighting the tears, he cut down the long-limbed challenger and resumed screaming, throat muscles constricted, more a primal call of hatred than a rallying cry. He was blind in one eye, and felt blood pouring down his face, but he kept going. The adrenaline of the moment was seeing him through. He feared what would happen when it failed him. He flicked his head, felt the wound sear, and screamed in earnest. As at Ostagar, the profane quality of his voice lent courage to those around him, and for one brief moment, the advance faltered.

He was dimly aware of the ragged cheers of the beleaguered defenders, granted a swift reprieve, and an all too familiar voice.

'NOW! PUSH THEM BACK! FOR MARIC! FOR FERELDEN!'

The Teyrn was still alive. It wasn't over yet.

-oOo-

_Time slowed to a crawl. Knowing that a relief force was on its way gave the illusion of hope, and with hope, the men were no longer resigned to death. Those who had fought with everything now held back, once more afraid to pass on, desperate to survive. Hope is a cruel, evil thing, sometimes._

_Yet every once in a while, hope can be rewarded._

With a sound of a dying sun, the mages strode into battle, unleashing their vast powers as one. The air was filled with fire, ice, energy, atrophy, earth, wind, life, death. Never before in living memory had such power been unleashed. Even the great bridge of ice could not compare. Utter and complete destruction rained down upon the horde, and the morale of the Darkspawn was completely swept aside, the horde broke, and fled. The mages had been there less than two minutes.

The silence that followed was deafening, as the soldiers began to realise what had happened. The tension was so thick it could be cut with a knife. The men, already at breaking point, had witnessed the full might of the Circle. Both Loghain and Nordja realised at the same moment that things could swing either way. The fate of Ferelden hung on this one moment, and dragged on for what seemed like eternity.

Then Anders spoke out.

'_Alright_, who needs healing?'

Both Nordja and the Teyrn breathed a long sigh of relief as the men cheered, laughing and crying, as their painful ordeal was finally at an end. Nordja hesitantly reached up to feel his cheek.

It wasn't there.

In mounting horror, his fingers gently brushed his teeth, and he felt the inside of his mouth, cut from ear to lip, a slab of flesh, dangling over his jaw. The shock wore off in an instant, as the ground rose up to meet him.

-oOo-

Of the six hundred men he had brought from Gwaren, barely a third were still standing. Of the King's two thousand, perhaps a tenth had fought their way free with him. Of Eamon and his four hundred troops, there was no sign. The Circle had now completely pledged itself to him, just over a hundred mages, perhaps a hundred and twenty. Each mage was worth ten, however, and if he was clever, he might just manage it.

Loghain looked down at the map of Ostagar. The war had reached a turning point. If he could reclaim it, here and now, then Orlais would have no reasons to doubt. If he failed . . . if he failed, he wouldn't be around to see the results. He trusted Anora to do right by the country, she was a strong queen. Stronger than Cailan had ever been.

He looked at the Commander, the young man who had ran off barley a week ago with empty promises, who now looked far older, almost double his years. The Chantry would string him from the rafters when they found out what he'd done. Butchering an entire garrison of Templars. Foolish, but perhaps necessary. Ferelden would already have fallen had he not.

'The plan of attack?' the young man asked.

'We leave our wounded here. To make up the deficit, we may end up recruiting from the village.'

'A press-gang, you mean?' There was a dark frown on his face. Loghain matched it.

'Foul business, I know, but it may be our only hope' he continued, as if he had not been interrupted. 'The mages will need to be protected above all else, and to do that, we need a solid line between them and the horde. They want to survive, they'll do their part.'

'And the Wardens?'

'I am loathe to risk you, but I can see it would be foolish to tempt you otherwise. Fight where you will, but fight you must. The men are talking. Started to calling you 'Dane the Wolf' or some other nonsense.'

He smirked. 'I'll let you know beforehand if I start to moult.'

'Please do, we only just got these quarters, I'd hate to ruin them.'

They were sitting in what had been the Revered Mothers old office in the Chantry. Nordja had been reluctant to set foot inside, but the Darkspawn hadn't managed to bring down the roof, and it was raining heavily outside.

After the battle, the men had looked at him with fear and revulsion. He had tentatively raised a hand to his cheek, to find it almost dangling off. A raw flab of meat, held on by a few tendons and a bit of skin. Even Loghain had paled at the sight of his teeth, bare and bloody.

Bethany had managed to stop the bleeding, which by that point had been a flood. But in her botched attempt, he had been left with a wicked scar, stretching from ear to lip, giving him a perpetual grimace. It still ached, and he had gone through six poultices, but still it burned. Some Darkspawn blood must have gotten in. After the unstoppable power of Yusaris, he was forced to acknowledge his limits. The Teyrn had his own scars, fresh and many, which Leandra was busy tending to. The woman had been relieved to find her children after the battle, not only safe but hailed as heroes. The troops had taken particularly well to Bethany, who hadn't fought on the front lines, but healed the wounded and rejuvenated the combatants. Nordja privately suspected other, more base reasons for their praise, but this was life. She would learn, and he trusted Hawke to castrate any man who was foolish enough to take liberties.

'You mentioned Flemeth?' Nordja asked him, curious.

'Aye. The Witch arrived to warn us of the attack, but by then it was too late. We fought, and we lost. I don't know what happened to her, the last I saw she was alone on the bridge, surrounded. That battle was a nightmare.'

'What about Duncan, and the other Wardens? Did they make it?'

Loghain shrugged. 'Last I saw, Duncan was with the king. As for the others, I cannot say. You've found more than a few recruits already. I wouldn't worry too much.'

Nordja glared. 'Without Archdemon blood, I cannot make them Wardens. If I cannot make them Wardens, that leaves us vulnerable. And I didn't think to ask where it was kept. In short, if the Wardens are dead, we're screwed.'

'We're screwed anyway' Loghain growled. 'If we cannot take back Ostagar, The Darkspawn are free to ravage the southern Bannorn, and can outflank us at every turn. We will win, or lose, on the road tomorrow.'

'Even if we take it, how will you hold it? They'll just tunnel again. And again.'

He frowned. He was confident, with the power of magic, that he might be able to take back Ostagar. Holding it, however . . .

'I don't know' he answered truthfully.

-oOo-

The long march was brutal. It took them six days to fight their way back to the ruins, to find them even more degraded. Waves of spawn attacked them frequently, and were held by the warriors, to be annihilated by the mages. The only trouble they had was with a trio of Ogres, who smashed through the lines and scattered the mages like cats among pigeons. Thirty-two soldiers had died bringing them down, and many more had been injured, but few succumbed. The Circle proved its worth time and time again. Loghain was wondering how he had ever managed without them.

A single Genlock now barred their way into the fortress proper. His eyes were aflame with cold, blue light, and the twisted staff he carried marked him as an Emissary. It made a harsh rasping sound, and he realised it was _laughing_. As it started waving, the Circles' wards flew up, invoking harsh curses at the display of magic. _People can be so __**thick**__, sometimes_, he thought.

The spell, however, did not reach the wards. It seeped into the earth, all around them, like a black fog. A corpse lifted its head, the same blue fire now playing in its eyes. It _snarled_.

All around them, and under them, dead bodies started to stir. Before they realised the danger, the men were fighting a desperate battle against their former comrades, brothers in arms. This was far worse than fighting Darkspawn. To see a friend, with an arm sheared off, stumble towards you and tear at your skin, to see dead men walk, was a horror unlike anything they had ever experienced. Loghain resolved that instant to kill the little bastard at the first opportunity.

'Form up!' he cried. 'Heads, necks or legs! Heads, necks or legs!'

The call was repeated down the line, and the front rank knelt behind their shields, hewing at the legs, while the second rank swung larger weapons. Those with blunt objects fared better, crushing skulls and kneecaps on each swing, and then the mages got involved. The risen dead fought slowly, clumsily, but they made no sound as they attacked. No war cries, no screams, nothing. It was very unnerving. Creepy as they were, they died like anything else when frozen, burned or hacked apart. By the end of the engagement, there was no sign of the Necromancer.

-oOo-

Another corpse stumbled into view. Her face had been ruined, and her entrails spilled down past her knees. But Loghain knew the sword, and who he was facing.

'Maker, _no_.'

A whispered plea, but the undead came marching on. The woman reached the lines, and he embraced her in a bear hug, pinning her arms.

'Cauthrien?' he pleaded.

She bit at him. There was nothing left of her. A solitary tear escaped his hard eyes, the first in many years. He released her, and prepared to swing. A soldier got there first, neatly decapitating his finest lieutenant.

'Sir?' the man asked hesitantly. Loghain wanted very much to kill him. 'Sir, she's gone. At peace now. There was nothing you could do.'

'I know that!' he snapped. 'Press on, damn you all!'

They did without question.

-oOo-

The day dragged on. They found pockets of resistance, both Darkspawn and the walking dead. The 'spawn, they cut down with screams, the dead, with tears in their eyes. Every now and then a soldier would drop his blade and beg the corpse of a friend or lover to recognise them, only to have their throat torn out. Regardless, the mages won the day. By mid-afternoon, Ostagar had been reclaimed.

There were masses of Darkspawn, hundreds on the bridge alone. More were scattered around the camps, in great droves. They had burned, in a fire so fierce their armor had run like tallow. The charred corpses were _everywhere_.

And a filthy great dragon was perched atop the tower of Ishal.

-oOo-

The king was happy, to say the least.

In the confusion, most had died. Those who had not regrouped around the king, and had barricaded themselves in the tower. Several hundred men had survived off of spare supplies, and the occasional rat. For ten days they had held, and now they were free. Tears of joy and cries of laughter greeted them, along with a few hollow, sunken eyes of disbelief. Nordja had eyes only for the Wardens. Sinderion had survived, along with Duncan. The others had been torn apart. No words were exchanged, just silent smiles. _Relief_. He had forgotten what it felt like.

-oOo-

Loghain had never known hatred like this. The king had made a good decision, holed up here and waiting for relief, and then he and Eamon had gorged while the army starved. He was beyond livid. And now that insufferable hag from Denerim was chewing his ear off about the Circle. Heresy this, and blasphemy that. It washed over him. This was the Warden's problem. He was having an equally hard time of it. Their rescue came in the most unlikely form.

With a snarl, Cailan struck the Grand Cleric of Ferelden so hard she crumbled to the floor. The Templars were appalled. Irving and the Senior Enchanters were shocked. Even the Warden, who disdained the Chantry on every level, looked uncomfortable. Loghain himself was uneasy_. Women that old didn't recover from such blows. What had he allowed Anora to marry?_

'They have saved us all, fool. I will not see them squandered. Take yourself, and your Templars, from my sight. You are all hereby _banished_ from this kingdom' he spoke, smartly turning to the First Enchanter. 'Now, let us discuss the Circle under the crown. Shall we?'

A dangerous glint in his eye left no compromise. 'Ah, y-yes your Majesty.'

Loghain and the Warden shared a look. Cailan had ever been a spoiled brat, and he had been slightly unhinged since Ostagar, but this was pure madness.

'Cailan' he called. 'You can't-'

The young man was on him in an instant, spittle flying in his rage. 'Do not presume to tell me what I can and cannot do, you peasant! I am King! I sit the throne, not you! You and your bitch of a daughter think you can control me, don't you? My wife will not manipulate me any longer! I am giving you this one last chance for glory, before you retire. You should be grateful!' he roared.

Loghain was stunned. This couldn't be Cailan. It couldn't be. The sweet boy he and Maric had raised after Rowan died was gone. He didn't know who this was. 'As you command, my king.'

'And don't you forget it!' he screamed, storming off with a terrified Irving. Silence filled the room.

Eamon cleared his throat. 'Shouldn't you all have tasks to attend to?'

Everyone left in a shuffle, happy to be gone. Nordja moved to help the Grand Cleric to her feet. She spat on his hand. 'Heathen!' she shrieked. 'Guards! Help me stand.'

The Templars moved and gently raised her, shooting Nordja with dark glares. They left the tower, and he and the Teyrn spoke quietly. 'This bodes ill.'

It certainly did. Standing at the back, away from the drama, only Flemeth noted the gleam of triumph in the eyes of a Senior Enchanter at the king's outburst.

Uldred was a happy man. Things were going exactly as planned.

_**Phew! That took longer than expected. If you feel that Cailan is channeling Joffrey, blame HBO. I've been watching too much Game of Thrones.**_


	14. The Plot Thickens

_***DISCLAIMER: this is a product of Bioware, and pure fan fiction on my part. Once again NOT mine, just having a bit of fun with it. Hope you enjoy**_

The dead smelt of burning pigs.

Nordja grimaced as his nostrils betrayed him, and supressed a snarl as his mouth watered. The thousands of dead bodies, human and darkspawn, were being burned, either on pyres or in a great heap. The darkspawn didn't really need it; most had been burned by Flemeth.

He had been surprised to see her looking so . . . powerful. When he had met her in the Wilds, she had looked old and frail. Now, she was radiating power, an ancient warrior queen reborn. Hawke hadn't shut up about the dragon trick. It was quite amazing, he had to admit.

To hear her tell it, when the army had fractured, she routed the spawn by herself and cleared the area surrounding Ishal, giving Cailan and the Arl time to hole up. In the subsequent days, she had obliterated every war-band that had tried to settle in. The victory belonged more to her than the Circle. Even with their immense power, it would have been a lot of bloody, hard fighting if she hadn't taken on the horde unaccompanied. Her reward had been a group of apprentices attaching themselves to her like a shadow, hoping to learn. The only mage she had bothered exchanging a few words with was Hawke, who pestered her relentlessly. There was a dangerous glint in Flemeth's eye whenever the 'D' word was mentioned, and people soon learned to avoid it.

He scratched at his scar. It had grown thick, and ropey. The pink had faded under the constant poultices into an unhealthy looking yellow. Whatever looks he once kept were spoiled. He had always tried to remain aloof, but was surprised to find how vain he was. He missed his face. This new one would take some getting used to.

-oOo-

Daylen stood with an arm around the woman he loved. Wynne had always been the mother he had never had, she was always so very sure, of herself and the world around her. Of everything. To see her break down so completely at the sight of a funeral pyre had upset him. She had been here many weeks, and lost friends in the attack. He hugged her tighter, with a thousand yard stare.

-oOo-

The tower was dark, and more importantly, empty. While everyone mourned the dead, they had snuck off, to conduct their business. If they were caught, it wouldn't be pretty. The two of them passed like wraiths along empty corridors, until they found the door. Treading softly, the man carefully opened it, peering around in the gloom. There was no-one else there.

He grinned. 'Empty, as you said it would be' he whispered, turning towards his companion.

She pushed him backwards into the room, hunting for what she sought. Neria looked at Cullen. 'Mine at last' she breathed, reaching up to kiss him. He was cautious, at first, but soon was returning her affections with interest. She guided him down onto a bunk. There was a brief moment of fear in his eyes, before lust won over. She guided his hand between her skirts, and he hesitated, arm paralyzed.

'Are you s-' he tried to begin, but she silenced him with a kiss.

'Take me' she gasped.

He did.

-oOo-

The pyres had burned low, and now, everyone celebrated the fallen by getting absolutely hammered. Anders was having the time of his life. Just over a week ago, he had been in solitary confinement, ten months in and no end in sight. Now, he was drunk, with a pretty girl on his knee, and no-one could stop him shooting lightning whenever he pleased. The Templar order had been banished from Ferelden. He still couldn't believe it. This signified both a new dawn for mages, and what would probably mean the end of the Chantry. After so many years of oppression, someone had seen their evil and revealed them. More kingdoms would follow, he was sure of it. More importantly, _he_ was now free. It tasted good.

Almost as good as she did. The camp followers had all been frightened, and some had had the pox. The arrival of the Circle had cured them of both, and all the girls seemed determined to thank them the only way they knew how. He didn't bother to suppress his grin. Life had taken a definite turn for the better.

-oOo-

The tent was dark, what few candles she permitted struggled to hold back the encroaching blackness. A small collection of Grimoires and relics, skulls, daggers, feathers and vials of questionable substances, all artefacts of both knowledge and power, all she had deemed to bring from her den.

They were fakes, of course. She didn't trust the insipid mages hounding her every move to behave themselves, nor her daughter, for that matter. Any spells the books contained had vital components missing, the relics temperamental, at best. Any who decided to try their luck would soon find their internal organs distressingly _external_.

Flemeth smiled. Not due to humour, few enough in this camp had any wit, but due to success. Morrigan sat across from her, having finished relaying her version of events. The Grey Warden had brought the Great Change, almost a decade early. Soon, the war would begin. She had best prepare.

'Now, my daughter' she began. 'Let me tell you of a certain, _dark_ ritual . . .'

-oOo-

Morning saw the last of the ashes carried off by the winds, and after the revelry of the night before, the long, hard and gruelling task of rebuilding began. Loghain sat, teeth bared, as he listened to Eamon and Cailan congratulate each other on their great victory.

Never mind the fact that they hadn't done anything. Far be it from him to point this out, however. Cailan had changed, since Ostagar. He hadn't noticed, before, but now he looked back, the signs were all there.

He hadn't cared to notice, then. A small, and ultimately worthless distinction.

'What say you, Teyrn?'

The comment brought him out of his reverie. 'What?' he blurted, mentally kicking himself.

'The North. Our reports say that Howe has risen up against Bryce Cousland, and put the entire family to the sword. Howe reports they were plotting against the Crown, but I find this excuse hollow. He has been ordered to abandon Highever and ride south with all haste, to explain his actions. We need the North; our men are stretched thin as it is. If he will not come, you will bring him to heel. How soon can you ride?' Cailan asked, his expression smug.

Exile, then. 'Cauthrien is d' he began, trying not to choke. 'is dead, and Maric's shield with her. I will need time-'

'Denied. You can find another lieutenant, on your return. You shall have an honour guard of eight knights, handpicked for their courage. You shall leave at dawn, or sooner. What say you?'

'It appears that I have little choice in the matter. I'll be ready in an hour. Majesty.'

He left the room in a fury, followed by Eamon's smirk. He knew _exactly_ what this was.

-oOo-

Nordja was abruptly woken by the Teyrn storming in. 'Whassamatta?' he asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

'I am being sent away, supposedly to deal with a rebellion. In truth, Eamon and Cailan want me out of the way. My every move will be reported back to them by their spies, or perhaps they'll simply kill me once I'm out of the way.'

He sat up, alert now.

'I. Need. Help.'

'You have it. I was going to put the recruits through the Joining today, but it can wait. How many do you need?'

'As many as you can spare. The King is sending me _eight_.'

Nordja thought, carefully. Who to send?

'I can give you five. Jory comes from Highever, and Alistair can be trusted. I'll also give you the Hawke siblings. Their magic will be useful, and Carver's good with a blade. Plus he worships the ground you walk on.'

'Allow me to find a container, for all this joy' Loghain replied, dryly.

'Will it be enough?' he asked.

'It should suffice.'

The Teyrn paused. 'I don't suppose any of them can work from the shadows?' he asked, voice low.

'What did you have in mind?'

'I need to know what Cailan is plotting. What he doesn't want me to know. I need to know if Anora, if my daughter, is in danger. Can you do this?'

The Teyrn looked different as he spoke. Helpless.

'I'll have Sinderion look into it' he promised.

Loghain nodded. 'My thanks, Warden.'

-oOo-

'I'm not staying.'

Her face was resolute, and angry.

'Fine. Go with the Teyrn. Though I doubt he'll want an Orlesian tagging along.'

Nordja and Leliana faced each other down. Their intense dislike for one another had reached a boiling point. He wouldn't be sad to see her go.

The Warden recruits had been briefed on their mission, Jory had accepted it with calm stoicism, Alistair had been disappointed, but happy to be away from the king. Garret and Bethany were looking forward to it. Carver, however, had worn a huge grin at the thought of protecting the Hero of the River Dane.

Only Leliana had complained, not wanting to spend more time in each other's company, and he saw no reason to keep her. _Good riddance_.

The large force now stood outside, waiting for the Teyrn, staring daggers at the force of knights Cailan had picked, who returned the glares wholeheartedly. A small part of him was uneasy to see so many of his recruits disappear, leaving him only Sten and Morrigan. It would be a long trip to Orzammar, but, seeing as it was only a diplomatic mission, he wasn't too bothered.

_It's not as if I'll be going into the Deep Roads_ he smiled.

Duncan and Sinderion stood behind him, ready to carry out the Joining for the Qunari. They made their goodbyes, Duncan receiving an awkward embrace from Alistair, before making their way to the summit.

-oOo-

'Sten, from this moment forth, you are a Grey Warden' he said, handing the Chalice to the bronze giant.

'Blood magic. I might have known' he growled, before downing the contents. He jerked, grimacing as he swallowed, as the Taint flowed through him. A large 'Thud' sounded as he collapsed, his eyes blank and unseeing.

He felt for a pulse.

There! Very faint, but through sheer will, the Qunari had kept his heart beating. He would live.

Nordja smiled.

-oOo-

Loghain stood, as the woman helped him with his greaves. Cauthrien had always assisted him with this, to have a stranger dress him was . . . unfamiliar, to say the least.

'You will look after them, won't you?' she asked, impatiently brushing her hair from her eyes. Leandra finished the last buckle and rose, starting on his gauntlet.

'Madam, they are going to look after _me_' he joked. A faint smile was his reward.

'Garret can look after himself. Always has done. But Carver doesn't always think, and Bethany' she paused. 'Bethany has always been vulnerable. Don't lose her.'

'I'll keep an eye on them, I swear.'

'You had better' she grunted, fiddling with a clasp. 'Or the Darkspawn will look like a picnic, compared to what I'll do to you.'

He laughed. 'You remind me of Eleanor.'

She flashed her eyes, dangerously. 'One of your conquests?'

Now he really laughed. 'Maker, no! She was the Teyrna of Highever. But you've got her fire.'

'I've got children, Ser.'

'The correct term is 'Your Grace' said Cailan, butting into the tent. 'He is a Teyrn, after all.'

'Your Majesty' Loghain grunted. 'To what, do I owe the pleasure?'

'I gave you more than ample protection. Why do you see fit to override my authority? What business do you have with the Wardens, when previously all you did was complain?' The King was dangerously close to his face, true anger once again in his eyes.

'I requested it, your Majesty' said Duncan, ducking underneath the flap. 'These new recruits my successor found are ill-trained, and could do with a kick.'

He leaned closer, so only the king could hear him. 'I also suggested that the _bastard_ might go with them, to keep him away from his Majesty.'

Cailan brightened at that, and smiled, evidently not noticing the look of shocked incredulity from his general. 'As you say, Duncan. Come, walk with me, we have much to discuss.'

Duncan managed a subtle wink at Loghain before he was lead out, leaving both him and Leandra bewildered.

-oOo-

Arl Eamon Guerrin watched his rival leave the camp, surrounded by untrained Wardens, and his assassins. He smiled, toasting to his brilliance. The Knights he had helped Cailan choose had no lands, no money, and no alliances. They owed everything they had to the King. In other words, they were _disposable_.

A stray thought of outrage clouded his mind, upon seeing Alis-the bastard. He had cared for the boy, as per Maric's request, but now he served a new King, his nephew. He turned to the man now.

'Your Majesty, if I may?'

'Of course, uncle. What do you wish?'

'How long shall we be staying in this ruin?' he asked, frowning at the crumbling walls. The mages had used their power to collapse the tunnels, and had set up wards around the camp, and so far, the Darkspawn had retreated to lick their wounds. He wasn't confident it would last.

'If, sorry, _when_ Teyrn Loghain returns,' he smirked, 'Then Arl Howe or Teyrn Howe, whatever he wants to call himself, can lead the defence here while we return to the capitol, in comfort.'

'You mean to give him Highever then, Majesty?' Eamon asked. He had never liked Howe, the man had always been overly fond of kicking stray dogs.

'Do you remember when my father died?' Cailan asked, draining his goblet. 'Wine. Bryce was named a contender to _my_ throne.'

'But he stood _for_ your Majesty' Eamon protested. Bryce had been a good friend of his. Blood was thicker than water, and none was thicker than Cousland blood.

'That is true' Cailan mused, his eyes glazing over slightly, before he started up again, tipping over his chair in his haste. 'Or what if it was all a ploy, to make me look weak. He _knew_ he couldn't win, so he knelt, and made a few Bann's pay the price for _his_ treachery! And _I_ looked like a fool in front of the Landsmeet!' he snarled, slamming his fist onto the table. 'He was a traitor, I am sure of it!'

Eamon nodded, somehow convinced. It hurt to think, to see gaps in the reasoning. A veiled mist settled, and he was once more content. Calling for another refilling, he sat back in his chair and drank.

'And once Arl, sorry, Teyrn Howe brings his strength here?'

'Howe will bleed at Ostagar. I will not have him occupy the whole north. And, once he is no-longer useful, we will remove him. What say you, Senior Enchanter?'

The King and the Arl turned to the silent, robed man who had been quietly enjoying himself, watching the tirade. 'A most excellent plan, my lords.'

-oOo-

Malus was enjoying this new world. In the Fade, things existed, or they did not. Here, structure was permanent, and once destroyed, gone forever. Malus smiled, and felt his muscles grin. The golden fool and his advisor turned back to their conversation. It had not been difficult to bend them to his will. A bandage here, a healing spell there, a vial of blood gathered and put to use.

Humans were weak. This mortal form had begged for power, begged to be spared. Malus had listened, and Malus had answered.

The mage's soul had tasted sweet, and already, Malus had learned much. Enough to fit in, enough to not arouse suspicions, enough to know what to do, and how to do it. Eating, sleeping, crapping, all of these things were new. Uldred was gone, this shell Malus wore as a glove. But he thanked Uldred nonetheless. This would not be possible without his memories.

Power did not rest in the Fade, or in the souls of mortals, as so many of Malus's brothers believed. Power rested in the hands of Kings. The golden fool would burn this land around him, and Malus would bring it back from the brink. Malus had already stopped interference from the whore and her followers, this land belonged to him. It just didn't know it yet.

And, if Malus failed, Ferelden would still burn.

But Malus would not fail. Malus had been old at the dawn of time. Malus knew exactly how this game was played.

And Malus was going to win.

-oOo-

The sentry shook his shoulder, gently.

Aidan woke.

It had been one month, to the day, since his world had burned. Now he was ready. Now the men loyal to Highever would take back their home, and see the traitor crucified.

It had been hard. It would get harder still.

'Oren. Oriana. Fergus. Mother. Father.' He repeated their names every morning when he woke up, to remind him of his duty. He repeated the mantra every evening, so that he might dream of them.

Now vengeance would be his.

Highever was too fortified for any attack to work.

So they weren't going to Highever, where the traitor sat his father's seat and lorded over his rightful people.

_No. Not Highever. Not yet._

They made their way to the tunnel entrance. He and Nathaniel had found it in their youth. _Strange, to be using it like this._ He dropped into the tunnel, his men behind him. The left fork ran past a large Dwarven ruin, and into the crypts beneath the Vigil.

_Burn my home, and I'll burn yours_ he thought, grinning.

'Come, men, now is the hour! Today, we cut out that bastards heart, and avenge my family!'

They cheered. Cutha howled along with them. He stroked his head, behind the ear. 'Come boy. Let's paint the Vigil red!'

A happy 'woof' in return. It was all he needed. They set off, quickly and quietly, through the tunnels of a dead empire.

-oOo-

Alas, it was too easy. The Vigil, undermanned, had fallen, and he had put every defender to the sword. Thomas and Delilah had been brought before him, Thomas cursing, threatening, and in the end, pleading.

He had been part of the slaughter, and so Aidan took his head.

Delilah, she just stared, knowing full well what was going to happen. He had made it quick.

Both their heads now adorned the gate of the Vigil, alongside every captain, every steward, everyone who might have known.

_Known, and done nothing_.

Only the seneschal, Varel, rescued from the dungeons had been spared.

Aidan gave orders for the gates to be destroyed, as if they had forced their way through. If the traitor returned, he would be taken the same way as his children. Besides, his small force was not enough to hold the Vigil.

Three days later, after the place had been thoroughly looted and burned, a wreck of the once proud keep, they moved on.

He stood now, gazing at Amaranthine, the jewel of the North.

His army, having been silent for too long, arrayed itself on the hill behind them.

'Orders, my Lord?'

Aidan Cousland stared at the city, in the sway of Esmerelle, the traitor's best source of income. The money behind this place had paid for the swords, the arms and the men who had ransacked his home.

'Burn it.'

.

_**Okay, that was a difficult chapter to write. Sorry for the long delay, but I wasn't satisfied for a long time, and in truth, I'm still not happy. Ugh. Writing filler sucks.**_

_**Thanks for your patience, and please review! Next chapter coming shortly, I hope.**_


	15. The Great War Begins

_***DISCLAIMER: this is a product of Bioware, and pure fan fiction on my part. Once again NOT mine, just having a bit of fun with it. Hope you enjoy**_

_**A/N: I know it's been a while, RL interfered (Bugger) and I've just started a new job, so updates will no longer be weekly. To make up for this, this chapter is longer, so you get more to chew on. Sex in this one too, if you're squeamish.**_

As night fell on Ostagar, the thief crept against the parapet, the stolen documents hidden in his jerkin. Silver clouds hid the moon and her hateful light in this, the hour of the wolf. The sentry did not notice him. Fools. They would do better to wait, eyes scanning the darkness, but no, they patrolled, talking and laughing and drinking.

_Shemlen._

How Arlathan ever fell to them he still could not grasp. How these backwater savages managed to hold off the Imperium for as long as they did mystified him even further. A cold gust of wind drew him back to the present. And it was _cold_, here.

For many years, he had travelled. In his youth, he wandered the ancient forests, the great Tirashan, home to shadowcats and the great wolves, larger than horses. He had stalked men through Arlathan, defending the bones of the first civilization from the spawn of those who brought her low. He loved the forests. Each had their own personality, their own spirit. The Brecilian, wild, savage, untamed. The Heartlands, the only thing of beauty in the lands of Orlais. The Dales.

Ah, the Dales. What he would not give to return.

It was the Dales, where his old life had ended. It was the Dales, where he had been born again.

The sentry passed by, and he was away, a flash of cloak, dark blue cloth against a dark blue sky. If the _Shem_ saw anything, it was put down to the drink.

Sinderion passed through the arch of a tent, pulling down his hood. Before him, Duncan, the only _Shem_ he respected, nodded. Without a word, he passed the documents to the other _Shem_ in the room, a _Shem_ he had yet to judge.

Nordja took the documents and began to read through them. He did not smile.

_**Earlier that day . . .**_

The musty smell of damp permeated the tent.

Sinderion was sat on a rickety chair, shifting position. It groaned in protest, but held his weight. Beside him sat his former commander, smoking a pipe. The herbal fragrance of weirdroot assaulted his nostrils. Such plants were usually reserved for the Keepers, when they must travel into the Beyond, but some _Shems_ simply used it as a drug. Not that he blamed Duncan. The loss of his arm had hit him hard, and although he hid it well, he was in pain.

Before him stood the new commander, with his own deformity. The Shem had not been as handsome as the king, but there had been no denying his rugged charm. That was gone now. The ugly, ropey scar stretched along his jaw and gave him a permanent sneer, the multiple healing attempts having only stopped the blood flow and turned it from a red, raw colour to a jaundiced yellow. There were tinges of pink around the edges, but the man would never be desirable again.

He found it strange that he pitied him.

To his credit, the _Shem_ did not try and hide his deformity. His hair was pulled back into a corsair's topknot, keeping it out of his eyes. Eyes that bore directly into his, now.

'I need a thief' he said. 'Teyrn Loghain fears for his daughter, the queen. We need someone to find out if the king is planning anything . . . untoward. You are my first choice, but if you know of another, speak up.'

He was about to reply, but Duncan spoke first.

'Commander, be careful. This is treason.'

The young barbarian exhaled, slowly. 'What choice do we have? The king is mad; he would have us divided in a time of Blight. We need to know what he is planning, at the least. We cannot count upon his goodwill to extend to all of us, Duncan. You're the only one he trusts.'

Duncan nodded. 'I can distract him for a few hours, at least. But if we are caught-'

'Then we face the consequences.' Sinderion was surprised to realize he had spoken. He nodded at the _Shem_. 'What am I looking for?'

-oOo-

The king had taken quarters in Ishal, high above the mundane camp life. Getting in would be easy. The king thought himself infallible, and security was lax. He bent his head, scurrying past the guard, who didn't even bother with a second glance.

Just another useless elf, off on some errand.

_Idiots._

He made his way through the ante-chamber, careful to keep his face low. A spare crate was swiftly hoisted, adding to his disguise. The circular route up through the tower took many minutes. His legs burned at the strain, but he kept a regular pace, quick, but not a run. He was invisible.

A large rat hurled itself through a doorway, shrieking in fear. He paused, sensing for darkspawn. Nothing.

As he turned to leave, the door flew open, a mage with an expression like thunder in the doorway. He remembered to shriek, playing the frightened slave.

'You there. Elf' the bald mage drawled. 'What are you doing here? This section is forbidden to your kind.'

'F-forgive me, milord. The Chantry left several crates of supplies. The king wants them b-burned.' It was believable. And playing on the kings growing madness was growing popular. No-one dared contradict him, so those who weren't terrified had started slacking off, safe in the knowledge their lies couldn't be called out. He was playing the former, just to be sure.

'Good. Can't have that nonsense in my new kingdom. Burn it all.'

'I will, milord, I will!' he stammered, scraping and bowing with a big fake smile plastered all over his face. _His new kingdom? What did that mean?_

The mage looked around, but the rat had long disappeared. He caught the smell of blood coming from the room, and saw a flayed carcass hanging from the ceiling as the door slammed shut. It looked like a Mabari.

_Blood magic_ he thought. _Surely the king would not be fool enough to allow this. _

He put the thought from his mind as he turned back towards his task. _Seven more flights of stairs_.

-oOo-

The king's chamber was a mess. Food, wine, and scraps of parchment littered the floor, the bed was unmade, the fire untended, clothes thrown hap-hazard around the floor.

_Filthy, disgusting animals, the nobility_.

He bent and quickly searched the room, hunting for anything with the royal seal on, but found nothing. Either he had nothing incriminating, or . . .

Or it might be hidden. The room had not been furnished long, so he ruled out any secret compartments.

'If I were an idiot' he mused.

He lifted up a pillow.

_Naturally._ Two large, rolled up documents emblazoned with the royal seal. One smaller, crumpled note. The seals were already broken, and, with a quick look at the door, he flicked through the letters.

The first was seemingly innocent, the Empress offering aid against the Blight, with a subtle threat that Orlesian Wardens would not travel with the Chevaliers.

The second was from the Arl, begging the king not to fight upon the field of battle. He was also asking the king to put aside his wife. The Teyrn, it seemed, was wise to be paranoid.

The crumpled note was from the Empress herself, indefinitely postponing a royal visit until after the blight. It seemed odd, that this would not be an official-

_Ah._

The king, it seemed, planned to leave his wife for the Empress. Were it not for the Blight, it might have already happened.

This complicated things.

He tucked the documents into the folds of his jerkin, and began to leave. As he reached the door, he heard voices from the other side.

'Oooh, yer majesty, so brave of yah to kill them fings. Wiv all them soljers. Yer a real hero' came a woman's voice. Common. Slurred. Most likely a camp follower.

'I am, aren't I?' came the reply. Sinderion could practically see the smirk through the oaken door.

Terror gripped him. He looked about the room, but there were no chests big enough to hide behind, and the bed was against the wall-

He dove under, rolling under the frame as the king and the whore stumbled through, reeking of wine. They tumbled into the bed, bouncing, giggling and then came the sounds of passionate groans, sweaty pumping and all the unpleasant smells that accompanied them. He cursed his luck. It was going to be a while before he could leave.

-oOo-

The day dragged on, and Sinderion began to despair. The king managed to get through almost a dozen women before he tired himself out. Evening gave way to night. When the steady deep breathing turned into snores, he carefully extracted himself from beneath the bed, ignoring his muscles as they screamed in protest.

Silent as a ghost, he left the king to his dreams, and left the tower behind.

_**Back to the Present . . .**_

Nordja took the documents and began to read through them. He did not smile.

'The Teyrn was right. The queen is in danger. We need to get these to Loghain. Now.'

Duncan stood. 'We should leave as well. Alistair may be beyond the king's grasp, we are not. And you have long since worn out your welcome, commander.'

He nodded. 'Even if he had proof, he wouldn't need it. He's mad.'

Sinderion looked up. 'I believe I know why. The mage, Uldred. He was performing blood magic. There was a skinned dog in his room, rats were fleeing him. I believe he may have enthralled the king.'

Duncan frowned. 'That would definitely explain his change in behaviour. The Arl, too.'

'So, what, kill Uldred and everything goes back to normal?' he asked.

'I don't know. Blood magic isn't something I have a lot of experience with.'

'Me neither' he said. 'But someone I know might.'

-oOo-

Flemeth had spent the last two days preparing Morrigan for the ritual. She could now recite it backwards. She was proud of her daughter. Soon, plans that had been developing for centuries would finally bear fruit. The wheels of fate had aligned in the mortal Warden. She was close now. The old ways would return.

A small blip on her wards. Someone was coming.

Morrigan looked up. 'I sensed the wards activate.'

'As did I. Leave me now, girl. Go to your Warden. You know what to do.'

She nodded once, and left the tent through the back flap, leaving her to deal with the intruder. As the presence drew nearer, she realized she needn't have bothered.

The Warden strode through the tent, haggard and frightened, though he masked it well.

'Ah. What can I do for you, commander?' she asked, the faintest ghost of a smile on her lips.

'Flemeth' he bowed, though not low enough to lose eye contact. _Smart of him_. 'We have reason to believe that one of the mages has ensorcelled the king. How do we fight against a blood mage?'

'I am flattered that you thought of me, but I am no blood mage, boy. My strength comes from within.'

'I never claimed you were one. I wanted to know whether killing the mage will free the victims' he said, keeping his voice carefully neutral.

'Usually, it would. But this is not the question you should be asking, is it Warden?'

'How do I kill him?'

'With all the Templars gone? You don't. But I know the one you speak of. Uldred. He isn't a blood mage. Not anymore.'

He looked at her, confused. 'What do you mean?'

'He has been possessed. A demon inhabits his body, a demon beyond anything I have encountered before. Most simply go on the rampage, killing indiscriminately, but this one is smart. It's waiting, for what I don't know. It most certainly does have most of the nobles under its sway, and it would be a very bad idea for you to confront it. You'll be arrested and executed before you can blink, and he won't have appeared to have lifted a finger.'

'Ah, fuck' he groaned, collapsing into a chair.

'Yes, that does sum it up rather nicely.'

He looked at her, despair setting in. _Well, we can't have any of that._

'Leave, Warden. Leave the camp and get as far away as possible. Secure more aid against this Blight, and in the meantime, I shall watch, and wait. Old Flemeth knows this game well. Trust in me.'

He nodded, and turned to leave, pausing.

'An unasked question is a terrible thing, Warden.'

He smiled. 'I actually need a favour. We recovered documents from the king, and we know he plans to remarry. The Empress of Orlais, in fact. The queen is in danger, and we need to warn Teyrn Loghain. I know that Morrigan can change into a bird. When she returns, can you have her deliver these, then join me on the road?'

She nodded. 'You realize, this creates a chit. You _will_ owe me, Warden, and one day, I _will _collect.'

He nodded, resolute. 'On the Mountain Father, I swear it.'

He handed her the letters, and left without a word.

She turned back; not at all surprised to see a rather large raven perched behind her. 'You heard all that, I assume?'

Her daughter turned a lazy eye on her. _Naturally_.

'Naughty fowl. I thought I told you to leave?'

Morrigan cawed, flicking her head to where the Warden had been sitting.

'Hmmph. I suppose you did find him. Well girl, you have a task, get to it!'

The raven hopped down, grabbed the letters and took off into the night. Flemeth watched her go, then began preparations. It had been a long time since she had needed this power, centuries in fact.

_What a mess._

-oOo-

By the time he returned, the camp was in an uproar.

_He knows._

Ducking behind a column, he watched the proceedings, shadowed from the casual eye.

Whores were being strung up, while the king stood on a podium, cursing them for thieves and traitors. The mage stood at his side, not bothering to conceal his smirk. Before them, head bowed, was an elf.

'No . . .' he whispered, recognising Sinderion. His face had been . . . broken. There wasn't an inch of skin not bleeding or bruised. A hand clamped down over his mouth. The knee-jerk reaction to fight evaporated as he realised who held him.

'Sten' he whispered 'what happened?'

'The Bas Saarebas' he grunted. 'Came with men from the king, blew up the tent. Duncan charged him. He was cut down. The elf and I ran, to warn you. He was captured.' Sten turned to him, large violet eyes staring down. 'There is nothing we can do. We must leave, commander.'

He hesitated, but only a second. 'Goodbye, Duncan' he said, softly. Then he turned and ran with the Qunari, leaving Sinderion to his fate.

-oOo-

The Wardens were a noisy bunch. The apostate, Hawke, never shut up, and the ex-templar could prattle on for hours about cheese or Maker only knows what. The twins were quiet, for the most part, although the boy sometimes argued with his brother. Bethany, she had to admit, was a nice girl. Though the magic still put her a little on edge. The knight, Ser Jory, hadn't said a word, just reported to the Teyrn every morning, and tried to keep the others in line. And the archer could spend hours in silence, strike up a conversation, or, Maker-forbid, start _singing_.

Aveline didn't know what to think anymore. She'd been trying to attract the king's notice for months now, and at the drop of a hat, he sent her as honour-guard for the Teyrn of Gwaren. Most of her companions were a dour bunch, focused on their duty, but then there was Landry. Ser Landry, make that. The puffed up popinjay had been given command, and spent hours boasting among his cronies, treating the rest of them like his damn squire. And she had caught him eyeing the Teyrn with something approaching hate in his eyes.

Something was definitely wrong with this mission.

A bird flew out of the sky, landing in front of them, and _transformed_. A woman stood before her, scantily clad, clutching papers in one hand, a staff in the other.

_Mage_.

The thought was like a curse. A week ago, none would have dared be this brazen. But with the expulsion of the templars, they were getting bolder. She was just glad Wesley hadn't lived to see it. It would have broken him.

The Teyrn rode up, scowling. 'What is it?' he asked.

'Message, from the Warden. You were right, it seems' she said, handing the papers to him.

As he took the papers, the ex-templar, Alistair ogled her. A pale, perfect breast had fallen free and the men whistled and shouted like dogs in heat. The mage scowled, and sorted out the problem.

'Had enough of an eyeful?' she asked the group, directing it at Alistair, who had enough decency to blush.

'Do not blame him for your wardrobe malfunction, witch' spat the archer. 'He is a good man, unlike the commander.'

The witch smiled, latching on to her prey. 'Having designs on the Chantry boy, do you? The way you look at him so intently, so hungrily... one would think you have never seen a man before.'

Leliana turned scarlet. 'Where I look is not your concern.'

Morrigan laughed, sliding over to Alistair. 'True enough. There is no way I can deny you this... but why would he choose you, when he could have me?'

Alistair gulped, looking around for help. No-one seemed interested though, they were all too busy on the impending catfight.

Leliana almost growled. 'You're confident, for a woman raised in a swamp, far from anything remotely resembling civilization.'

'And maybe that is my appeal?' she replied without missing a beat. 'A woman like you, why, he could find in any city in Thedas. You think you are cultured? Worldly? Powdered, perfumed, you ooze elegance, but what man wants a woman who lies limp beneath him, frozen in place by the thought that she might ruin her hair?'

She snorted. 'So you're saying you're wild and uninhibited? I suppose he might like your shrieking, you'd sound like a Genlock being murdered; a sweet, sweet sound to a Grey Warden.

'Um, help? Someone?' the Warden asked in a very small voice. 'Anyone?'

The witch smiled, showing all her perfect teeth in a predatory grin. 'Tsk, tsk, Leliana. Watch your jealousy, or you'll give yourself wrinkles.'

'Get away from me, or I shall have to take drastic measures.'

'Resorting to violence' the witch laughed; a high, cruel, cold thing. 'And here I thought you were civilized.'

'Enough' growled the Teyrn, who had been ignoring the exchange up until now, reading through the message. 'Give the commander my thanks, and tell him that I understand the threat.'

The witch nodded slightly, unwilling to bow. 'I shall take my leave then. Farewell, Teyrn, Wardens, _Alistair_ . . .' she smirked, stroking his leg slightly in front of the now enraged archer. With a large _Crack_ and a sharp caw, she was gone, speeding back towards Ostagar.

Leliana watched her go, fists clenched and trying not to shoot down the raven. But she was soon out of range, a dark smudge against the sky.

'Bitch' she murmured, too soft for the men to hear, but Aveline caught it.

Teyrn Loghain barked orders for them to travel to Denerim with all haste, to 'Rest and resupply.' Aveline didn't buy it for a second. Something stank. And now, Landry was whispering discreetly to his thugs, who were starting to fan out, encompassing the group. Landry drew his sword from its oiled sheath, nodded to her, and rode past.

She sat in the saddle, puzzled, and watched as he rode up to the Teyrn. As he drew back his arm for a swing, it clicked.

'Traitor!' she cried, spurring her horse forward and pushing herself between the two. Landry's sword smashed into her side, and she felt ribs break, but the leather brigandine held, stopping the worst of the blow. She smashed her shield into Landry, and he fell from the saddle. The Mabari, Rabbit, was instantly upon him, tearing at his throat as his screams turned to gurgles. She looked behind her, and saw the Wardens making quick work of the kings knights. A sharp pain in the back of her head, and she turned to face her attacker, catching a glimpse of a large, yellow wyvern, as the shield slammed into her head yet again and all she knew was darkness.

-oOo-

Flemeth kept her word. She watched Uldred, night and day, as a crow, a mouse, a cat, a woman. His presence near the king was cause for alarm not only for her, but for many others. Men and women of the Circle were beginning to grow uneasy. They suspected. And, like all good Chantry slaves, they did nothing. Some flocked to his side, and were openly practising blood magic now. Every day, there were a few apostates wandering into camp, to swear loyalty to the king that freed them from Chantry domination. There were a few murders, of course. Men and women who feared mages, devout fools thinking themselves the Makers voice in a country of heathens and heretics. Their screams were very sweet to her ears. Usually, torturers could only take a victim so far, but with blood magic, one could force a man to stand and receive his punishment for days, if not weeks. This of course, did nothing to promote the newly freed Circle's image. More and more, whispers sprang up around campfires, proclaiming the king to be a secret Maleficar and other wild nonsense.

If only they knew.

The more they complained, the more they were beaten. The more they were beaten, the louder they shouted. It had been two weeks since the Wardens had fled the camp, two weeks while they tortured the elf, two weeks of lynchings, executions, blood and pain. The army was close to revolting. They cried out for the return of the Teyrn, for the mages to be controlled, for the Chantry to be allowed to return. In every case, their cries were unanswered. There had already been two riots. Flemeth walked the camp sometimes, accompanied by a gaggle of mages, all of whom were rotten, vile little things convinced that blood magic was the only door to power, begging her for her secrets.

Two had been flayed alive before the rest got the message. She didn't like to be cruel. Ruthless, always, but cruelty was a weakness. Nevertheless, she could not deny herself a smile as the fools screamed for mercy.

-oOo-

Three days passed. The king grew more and more delusional, while Uldred made the final moves in his coup. First Enchanter Irving had been outraged by what the Circle was becoming, and fought Uldred constantly over the issue of blood magic. When words failed, he tried to stand against him, and was swiftly declared a traitor. His body was torn apart by horses, and his head mounted in pride of place on the traitor's gate, newly named and filled with dissenters, enemies of the state, clumsy servants and anyone in the wrong place at the wrong time. It stank.

Wynne looked up at the grisly display, and bade goodbye to her old friend. Then, she calmly walked forwards, leaving Ostagar and a slew of bad memories behind, with a group of mages in tow. Daylen, Neria, Cullen, of course. Niall, even Anders had grown appalled. But, she supposed, he had only wanted freedom, not . . . this. _Never this_. None of them would ever bow to Uldred; she refused to address him as 'First Enchanter.' That was, and always would be, Irving.

She strode forth, into the night, leaving it all behind.

-oOo-

They were making good time, even without a wagon this time. They had looped around Redcliff, keeping as far away from Eamon's powerbase as physically possible. Right now they were about to reach Sulcher's Pass, an area infamous for banditry. Sten marched in silence, refusing to talk to him. They had argued, many nights ago, Sten had wanted to be referred to as 'Warden' from now on, as 'Sten' was technically a rank, not a name. Morrigan, of course, refused to pander to him, or anyone, and constantly teased him. This would always send him into a black rage, and any unfortunate critter or would-be bandit to cross his path was torn limb from limb. Nordja chalked it up to homesickness; he too was missing his clan.

Of a night, or during the day when they cut through forest, he would hunt. Ste-Warden was too bulky to move silently and Morrigan could only hunt as a wolf or bear, leaving messy, half eaten corpses (if she even bothered to bring back results.)

Morrigan had gotten over her brooding, and the two of them were getting on very well. He would ask about her childhood, her magic, and she would ask about his upbringing, his beliefs, (she did not follow the Old Gods, but did not mock him as she would a devout andrastian) and so they became friends. She struggled to open up, at times, but gentle prodding and a heap of patience yielded results. He learned that Flemeth had not been the greatest of mothers, but she had still fared better than he.

'What did you mean?' she asked, huddling closer for warmth. 'What you said about your mother last night?'

He stiffened, involuntarily, jaw set in a hard line.

'Forgive me' she said, shifting away.

'It's fine' he grunted. 'There isn't much to tell. Three weeks after my birth, she left the clan. Took off into the woods and never returned. My father raised me, Kaart, the storyteller, weaned me and acted as a surrogate. She spoke of her often enough. I know that she was beautiful, that I resemble her. I know that she held little love for my father. He was a good man, the best I have ever known. But our clan was poor, and she missed the fine things of her childhood. It was an arranged marriage. I also know she didn't want children.'

'I am sorry' she said, squeezing his shoulder in a rare display of affection. 'T'was not my intention to bring up painful memories.'

'The past is done' he said. 'No point moaning about it.'

She smiled. Standing, she offered her hand. 'Join me tonight, Warden. My tent is cold.'

'I'll bet' he smiled. 'And what shall we do in such a small space?'

'I'm sure you'll think of something' she grinned in that predatory, leonine way of hers.

Her tent was nestled under an overhang of rock, furs laid out upon the ground and a sheet of dark linen covering the entrance. More a cave, than tent. It smelled of fruits and tree sap and wildflowers, of nature. And it was _warm_.

She unbuttoned her purple jerkin, the robe long since discarded as they trekked north. Her eyes were fixed upon his, unblinking, and he reached forwards, slowly, prolonging the moment. His fingers were rough, wrapping around her waist, and he pulled her close, kissing her with a passion he forgot he had. When they pulled away, her fingers traced the route of his scar. The colour had faded, it was now a white line, thick as her finger, and it sent delightful shivers down him as her nail gently scraped along it.

'I'm not as pretty as I was' he murmured, cupping her hand in his.

'It tells me you are fearless' she breathed, moving in to kiss his neck. 'You earned it.'

As she kissed him, she began to unbutton his robe. 'Show me your others.'

He rolled his shoulders, hands still on her waist, underneath her jerkin, which now pooled over her elbows, refusing to fall free and reveal her breasts. His own robe fell into a similar position, freeing his chest, caught on his arms. She moved her mouth to a large circle on his bicep.

'Arrow' he breathed, nibbling her ear. Her hand dragged down his chest, drawing five thin rivulets of blood as her nails dug in.

He gasped, smiling. It was a good hurt.

'Witch' she said, smirking up at him. On her knees, she unclasped his belt, and his robe fell to the floor, leaving him standing in his trousers and boots. She stroked his shaft, and softly bit its growing length through the leather. Not enough to hurt, but it felt _damn_ good.

She tugged them off, admiring his greatsword. 'My my, what have I gotten myself into?' she grinned up at him, before kissing the tip and licking him. He struggled not to sink to the floor, knees feeling very weak as she took him into her mouth.

'By the Gods' he said, shaking as the climax drew near. She immediately stopped, kissing the tip once more, a quick peck as if to say goodbye. She rose back to her feet, shrugged off her jerkin and pulled herself out of the sleeves. Two thin triangles covered her nipples, held in place by lengths of cord. He reached out and rubbed his thumbs across them, smiling as she purred in delight.

'My turn' she whispered, falling back into the tent, forcing him to follow. He ducked under the flap, grabbed her in a tight embrace and kissed her. Their tongues met, and danced in their mouths, fighting for dominance. He hooked his leg around hers and yanked, almost sending her tumbling onto the furs. His grip held her, an inch from the floor, green eyes staring into her golden orbs. She really did have the most beautiful eyes.

'Do you trust me?' he asked, softly.

She rolled her eyes. 'Hurry up and _fuck_ me, barbarian.'

He laid her down, and began kissing her neck, working his way down her collarbone, fingers gently teasing her nipples and massaging her breasts, his head sinking lower, lips trailing over her stomach, gently hooking her skirt and trailing it over her hips, and softly nibbling the top of her mound. His tongue slowly went down, exploring her folds, lightly applying pressure to the nub. He was rewarded with a gasp, his eyes trained on her chin, as she threw back her head and snaked her fingers into his hair. She pulled at the leather cord and his topknot fell free, giving her more purchase into his scalp. She pushed him down, deeper. He quickly pulled away, loving the frustration on her face. Eyes still on her, always on her, he pulled her leg up and slid her boot off, kissing the arch of her foot. She blinked, slowly, like a very contented cat. He repeated this with the other boot, and pulled down her skirt and trousers, flinging them carelessly behind him. He took a brief second to appreciate her naked body, in all its glory.

'I am a lucky, lucky man' he said, grinning ear to ear.

'You'll be a very, very dead man if you don't continue' she growled.

Chuckling, he pulled her calf up to meet his lips, delivering small, light kisses upon its length. He placed her knee over his shoulder, and with deliberate slowness, made his way down her thigh.

A small bolt of energy, small as a blade of grass, zapped him.

'I said, Hurry.'

'You forgot to say 'please'' he said, still a hand span from his destination. A larger bolt hit him, stinging slightly, though at this point, it felt good.

'Naughty girls don't get to finish you know' he said, running his teeth across her thigh. 'Say 'please.''

Her leg dropped off his shoulder, as she sat up, kissing him and running her hand down to his shaft, stroking him. 'Please' she begged between fervent kisses. 'Please.'

He grabbed her cheeks, pulling her upwards, so that she straddled his knees. She angled him into position, then slowly sank down, enveloping him inside her. They buried their heads in each other's necks, kissing and licking and biting, as he lifted her up and down onto him. Her fingers clawed his back and buried themselves in his hair, as they pumped in time, gasps and moans escaping from time to time. She pulled back, eyes glassy, jaw hanging down, panting for air.

'So . . . close' she moaned, just above a whisper. He placed a hand on the small of her back and pulled her closer, their foreheads touching, and put on a burst of energy, harder and faster. 'Gods . . . _fuck_' she panted, as he felt her insides clench up around him. 'Don't stop . . . don't stop . . . don't stop.'

He threw on a last reserve, thrusting away until her entire body spasmed and she screamed in climax. He came with her, shuddering in a moment of absolute perfection.

They sunk onto the furs, still entwined, panting for breath.

After a minute trickled by, he shifted away, but she grabbed his arm.

'Stay.'

'I intend to.' He said, leaning down to kiss her. He reached outside, grabbed his clothes and ducked back inside, pulling the furs over them. They spent that night huddled together, basking in each other's warmth, his dreams, for once, untroubled by the Archdemon.

-oOo-

Dawn broke over Ostagar, as he shivered in his cell. They had used blood magic to keep him standing, forcing his already tortured body well past its limits. A man unlocked the door and dragged him outside, the biting wind cutting through the thin shirt and shorts.

They had shaved him, cut off his ears and skinned most of his body. They had taken their time, splaying open each nerve, a month of agony. His fingers, thumbs and toes had been severed. They had cut open his nose, smashed his teeth and boiled his blood. Now, they had run out of ways to hurt him.

_At long last._

He stood upon the stage, a baying crowd before him, as the king proclaimed his evil and sentenced him to death.

_I'm dying. I really am._

He had not thought it would be this painful. Really, he hadn't. Every damn Keeper, priest and poet spoke about how _peaceful _dying had to be – as if they knew anything. It wasn't peaceful, and there certainly wasn't any white light shining in his eyes. Every now and then, blackness would eat at the edges of his vision, making him sway dizzily on his feet, but there wasn't anything white or pretty about it. And there wasn't anything soft, or cushiony, or squishy either. There was only pain.

When the sword came down, Sinderion smiled for the last time.

-oOo-

The former Grand Cleric of Ferelden knelt before her Perfection, Divine Beatrix III. She was well aware that her life was forfeit. Not only had the Circle gained independence under her nose, the Chantry and their templars had been exiled. Such a thing was unheard of. Since her beating at the hands of the mad king, she had travelled straight to Val Royeaux. After such a long ride, and at her age, she was ready to collapse. But the Divine must be warned.

And now, she had been.

Hours passed. The Divine and her Grand Clerics were in discussion. She had been questioned, but not asked to join them. The shame of it.

All those of rank were inside, discussing possible solutions. From pacifists such as Elthina, to the pragmatists such as Knight-Commander Meredith. Strange that two leaders of the faith from the same city should have such opposing views. There were whispers that even the Lord Seeker Lambert was also in attendance. It did not bode well for the state of Thedas when the Holy Order of the Seekers marched in force.

Before her stood rank upon rank of templars, an ocean of steel. Every single brave man and woman among them ready to lay down their lives for the good of all Thedas. At their head stood Knight-Commander Martel, the leader of the order. He would occasionally glance her way, but she could not read his expression. Revered Mother Callista sat with her, keeping her company. She was also a favourite of the Divine, and tipped to oversee Ferelden after the recent disgrace.

'Tell me more of this barbarian' she asked, quill and ink at the ready. 'He sounds like the most uncouth heathen.'

'Believe me my dear, he is. Do you know he challenged me, right in front of the king? He told me I had no place at a council of war, he even had the gall to side with a mage. And poor Cailan listened to him.'

'You believe the king is not at fault? Even though he beat you?'

'I have known him all his life. He was a good boy, a good king. None too bright, I'm afraid, but a good man. I only shudder to think of the foul techniques the Maleficar used to bend his mind. I pray to the Maker and the prophetess Andraste every day for his immortal soul.'

'And is it true, your Grace, that the heathen slaughtered the noble and righteous Knight-Commander Gregoir? We have all heard the most foul rumours.'

'Alas, I can confirm them. Poor Gregoir, he always governed with a fair and just hand, but I fear he grew too lax in his duty. The mages of the tower should never have been given the chance to rebel. I still remember the day-'

The doors opened. The procession walked out, silent. The various templars snapped to attention, and Knight-Commander Martel knelt before them.

'Your Perfection, have you reached a decision?' he asked.

'We have' she replied curtly.

'It is the will of the Divine, and the Chantry, that the kingdom of Ferelden has fallen into heresy. We cannot abandon the souls of the common people in that barbarous land. We are left with but one choice; to declare an Exalted March upon Ferelden. We will not stop until the aggressors, hereby known as the heathen Warden Commander, the witch Flemeth, and every mage of the Circle have been exterminated. King Cailan shall be brought in for questioning, along with his generals, Arl Eamon Guerrin of Redcliff, and Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir of Gwaren. Should any resist you in this sacred task, you are authorised to use deadly force. May the Maker have mercy on your immortal souls.'

Knight-Commander Martel took to the stage, addressing the massed ranks of templars. His eyes shone with holy elation, as he proclaimed the battle cry of the templar order:

'I am the cleansing flame!' he roared.

'The instrument of the Maker's will!' they roared back.

'I am the gauntlet about his fist, the tip of his spear, the edge of his sword!' he intoned, voice swelling into a fever pitch.

'Suffer not the heretic to live!' they screamed as one. 'Abhor the demon! Burn the witch!'

The Grand Cathedral in Val Royeaux shook with this proclamation, alerting the entire city to the news of the impending holy war.

_**And that concludes the filler chapters. Please, please please please please review, tell me what you think, whether it's too rushed or not, if the characters are believable, it really does make my day. The next three plot arcs all interlink, so you'll be seeing the invasion of Ferelden, the civil war in the north and the Wardens mucking about in the deep roads side by side. And there will be another update before Christmas (I hope)**_


	16. The Choices We Make

_***DISCLAIMER: this is a product of Bioware, and pure fan fiction on my part. Once again NOT mine, just having a bit of fun with it. Hope you enjoy**_

Nordja stood in the Hall of Heroes. The hot, stuffy air was a welcome relief after the bitter cold of the Frostback Mountains, where the harsh winds tore the skin from his face. Here, underground, he could relax his guard. The sentry at the door had not wanted to allow him access, due to the recent death of King Endrin Aeducan, but the Grey Warden seals had triumphed. Some luck at last. He walked past towering statues, perfectly symmetrical, of previous Paragons, the living ancestors of the dwarves. As for their people, they had wide jaws, impressive beards, and some sported tattoos identical to the ones the dead wardens had borne.

_Gatrik. Garrick. Kallad. Lumbar_. Their faces were blurred, half focused. He didn't know how long they had served, or how they even died. Only that they were dead.

He marched through the hall, taking in the sights, the sounds, even the smells. The molten lava blistered his skin, even from afar, and he quickened his pace accordingly. The massive carved doors, hewn from the mountain itself, swung open upon oiled hinges. It was incredibly ornate, each panel set with a carving of some battle long since passed, adorned with dwarves, darkspawn and occasionally giant, blocky soldiers. He didn't know if they signified great warriors, distant kings or perhaps something else entirely. Beyond, a small box of a room hung on cables, suspended over a deep mineshaft. Upon the frame, runes spelled out a word, ELEVATOR. It was close enough to the runes of his clan. Idly, he wondered if the alphabet he had learned was taught to his forefathers by the deep folk. Or stolen from them.

It seemed more likely.

They stepped into the elevator, followed by a dwarf in fine clothing.

'Down, warden?' he asked politely.

'Naah, I think we'll go sideways.'

'Because we don't hear _that_ one every week' the dwarf muttered, pulling the lever that sent them down into the heart of the mountain.

The ride down was enjoyable, once you got over the falling sensation. The elevator didn't bump or jar as he expected, grooves cut into the side of the shaft prevented that sort of swaying. After nearly an hour, however, he began to pray for a chair or a stool.

'So' he said, eager to break the oppressive silence. 'How are things in Orzammar these days?'

The dwarf laughed. 'Topsider, you have no idea.'

'That bad, huh?'

'Worse' he replied. 'Our king is dead and we're only heartbeats from civil war. And now we hear talk of a blight on the surface.'

'That's why I'm here' Nordja replied.

The operator shuddered. 'Stone preserve us all. Couldn't have come at a worse time.'

The elevator suddenly jarred, and their knees trembled after standing so long, but none of them fell.

'Heh. Sorry about that, our engineers still haven't figured out how to make it smoother' the dwarf said, bowing profusely. 'Wardens, welcome to Orzammar, the last city of the dwarven empire.'

-oOo-

Orzammar reeked of fungus, sweat and dust. The air was humid, thin, and the dust stuck uncomfortably to the roof of his mouth. He hated it here already.

Ahead, there was a large commotion. Riot, even. Two groups clashed, axes chopping at one another, and blood was spilt. The gang on the right retreated, just as the guards appeared. They sent both groups on their way, cursing them for fools and other illegible vows of punishment. He walked past, uninterested. As Morrigan was fond of saying, the world is a big place. No one man can solve all of its problems.

Let someone else deal with it.

He looked around. In front, there was a gigantic building, almost as large as the whole of Ostagar, four solid walls and a stone roof. To reach it, they would have to travel across a large bridge, spanning a river of lava. Even from here, the heat was intense.

_No thank you_.

He looked up, behind him, and saw the city proper. It spanned upwards for miles upon miles, each brick-like dwelling built onto the next, built into the stone walls, and craning upwards, he even saw a few hanging from the ceiling. As he looked about in wonder, he spotted a balcony, perhaps thirty stories above, made of shining white marble. The lava bathed it in an orange glow, but the wealth of that level was unmistakeable. That would be where he found his army.

The works of the dwarva were impressive, but only in their scale. Whatever bargains they had struck with their gods for their knowledge of stone craft, it had apparently cost them their imagination. Everything was squat, blocky and angular. Not a curve in sight, save for those on Morrigan. As he lost himself in thought, wallowing in his own good luck, a footpad brushed past him, reaching for his meagre purse. A swift blow and the thief went sprawling, to the chuckles and derisive comments of the nearby crowds.

'A thief, and I'm not even here two minutes' he muttered, picking up the stout man by his scruff. He had the same tattoos as the late wardens on his face, but wore a look of pure terror that he had never seen before. Like a dog, starved, beaten and whipped for sneaking titbits at the table. He realised that this dwarf was very, very young. Barely more than a child.

'Careful, warden' shouted out a passer-by. 'He's casteless, stone cursed. Give him to the guard, they'll deal with him.' He sniffed at the sight of Nordja's hands holding up the dwarf. 'Might want a wash, too.'

'Casteless?' he asked. 'What was your crime?' he paused. 'Aside from being a piss-poor thief.'

'I was born' the young dwarf whispered. 'I got the brand when I was seven. It aint a proper one. Only the nobs* get them done proper. We just get a hot knife and then they rub ink into it. Lets them know' he said, jerking his thumb at the crowd 'what we are.'

He set the dwarf down, too stunned for words. This was sick. 'Go home' he muttered, walking away.

'Aint got no home!' the youth shouted at his back. 'Aint got nuthin!'

'Then go anywhere' he said softly, mostly to himself. Had the whole world gone mad? It felt that way sometimes, in moments like these.

They walked away from the crowd, backs turned as the guard force descended upon the helpless child. His high pitch scream was cut abruptly short and greeted with a cheer from the crowd. Nordja had never felt more sick in his life.

'I need a drink.'

-oOo-

He spent the rest of the day, or what passed for day here, sat in a tavern drinking truly awful beer and picking up the rumours. Aside from the death of the king, there was the murder of his eldest son, supposedly by the middle child who had already been tipped to inherit the throne, conveniently leaving the youngest son with a clear shot at the big chair. Now that son, Bhelen, was engaged in a political war with another lord called Harrowmont, by all accounts both of whom were uninterested in Orzammar itself, wanting either power or revenge. Both had sent their men to investigate him, with Harrowmont sinking in his clutches first. Dulin Forender hadn't shut up for the last three hours, ever since he'd arrived in fact, and the alcohol wasn't improving matters. Listening to all the propaganda against Bhelen was getting very tiresome indeed.

'Forender, please, enough. Tell Harrowmont I'll consider it, after discussing with the Shaperate or . . . whomever'

'Thank you for your time, warden' he said, slight distaste forming on his face. 'May your ancestors help you to choose wisely.'

With the thinly veiled threat delivered, he left the tavern and hurried back to the Diamond quarter, lest anyone mistake him for a commoner. Before he was even out the door, another dwarf bearing the seal of house Aeducan upon his breast rose from the table next to theirs from where he had been shamelessly eavesdropping. Dulin, bright lad that he was, hadn't noticed him. His close cropped black hair was slick with oil, only his voice was hard. And his eyes. They said, cross me and I'll kill you. Like flint, but not as pretty. 'Vartag Gavorn, warden, and I hope you weren't taken in by that steaming pile of nug crap.'

So then, with the swift introduction complete, Nordja sat and listened to all the lies and propaganda about Harrowmont this time. He sounded like a weak old fool, but Bhelen was definitely up to something dodgy. Both of them were. Hours passed in wordless droning as the booze fogged his mind and carving rude doodles on the table with his dinner knife became far more engrossing than whatever the dwarf had to say. In fact, the only epiphany he had was that dwarves absolutely love the sound of their own voices.

Well, the nobles did. Corra, the barmaid, was perfectly friendly, sending him sympathetic glances and giving him every third ale free.

Gavorn left, eventually. Nordja thanked Korth and reached for the stone mug but a large bronze hand clamped down over his. He looked up at the Kossith, Sten, Warden, whatever he wanted to call himself. In these low ceilings, his horns would scrape gouges in the stone. Corra winced every time the bronze giant stood up.

'Parshaara, no more drink. We must decide on a plan of action. Both candidates are utterly spineless, or they would be king already. With whom do we stand?

Nordja grinned, and pulled out a shiny copper bit. 'Heads, Harrowmont, tails, uh, the other one.'

The Kossith sighed in disgust as he flipped it. Morrigan had long since dozed off, but half a golden eye watched the proceedings.

Heads it was.

-oOo-

The next day was spent in the large, squat building, wearing Harrowmont colours, and fighting dwarves in a proving. It was good to be fighting again. Yusaris had gone too long without blood. The sword was no longer alive in his hands, instead it was in inertia, slumbering.

Still a bloody good sword.

Sometimes he fought alone, sometimes he fought with other dwarves, and once, the Kossith joined him. Morrigan sat in the stands, thoroughly disinterested and reading a book.

Every fight would begin with the announcement, then the bluster ('For Lord Harrowmont' he would chant monotonously at the start of each fight. The crowd loved it though. Ate it right up.) And finally he would walk forward, dance about for a while before knocking his opponent on their arse, maybe draw a bit of blood if it was required. The good thing about his fighting style was that he had a long reach, longer than any dwarf could hope to match. Unless they were using spears, but he had yet to see those. And then the fight would end, and he would be congratulated, praised and the whole thing would start again in a few minutes. Only twice did an opponent make him work for it. Three bruised ribs and a slight concussion were his only injuries, along with the usual nicks and scrapes.

After, Dulin Forender found him out and dragged him to the Diamond quarter, on the nice balcony above the city proper. The stairs were endless, and he was ready to collapse by the time he finally reached the top.

Harrowmont fulfilled all of his suspicions. Old, dry and mired in tradition. Two points in the conversation nearly had him killing the little bastard on the spot. The first was the army. Not only would he have to jump through hoops to acquire it, only a fifth of the troops would march. By going to the surface, they would lose their caste, and be forever unwelcome in Orzammar again. So he was getting the whelps, the untried, the political enemies and those too old to be of service. When Nordja tried to argue, he was given a big speech about tradition. It seemed like an excuse. And the casteless. Harrowmont genuinely saw no problem with it. No problem with squandering an entire generation to poverty and crime with the darkspawn knocking at the door. But it was too late now to change sides; he had already humiliated prince Bhelen by defeating his fighters.

_Ah, well. Live and learn_.

They spoke at length, and it became clear that Harrowmont planned to milk him for all his worth. He was questioned at length as to why he spoke to Vartag Gavorn the night before, apparently old Dulin wasn't as blind as he had thought. The Kossith had to answer most of those questions, whenever Nordja tried to recall an answer, it slipped behind a foggy haze of lichen ale and mushroom mead.

Bhelen had apparently used his spies to capture a stolen promissory note, for Lord Anwar Dace. Dace was a major player in this political arena, apparently, and the three of them were treated to a nice long lecture on bloodlines and social standing within the Deshyrs. Nordja listened with feigned interest, Morrigan tuned out and picked up her book, while the Kossith listened to all that was said, expression unreadable.

Then they were sent on their way, a note to get them past the deep watch, and into the darkspawn infested tunnels to look for an old man in a sea of darkspawn.

He absolutely hated it here.

-oOo-

The idiot king was growing wearisome, and his cruelty was wasted here. Malus sighed. Life could be so mundane sometimes. What he would not give for some sport like the elf.

'My future kingdom for the soul of a Warden' he said, wistfully. The rest of the foul order had disappeared. Even that cripple, Duncan, brought down by the soldiers was gone. A blood trail had been discovered, leading into the Wilds, but none had bothered to follow it. Either the man was buried or soon to be.

And, speaking of the Wilds . . .

That blasted witch. He had seen her before, crawling about the Fade, he knew it. She was powerful, this dragon woman. He recalled the tales they told of her, in the Dreamscape. Many of his brothers had gone after her, or she had come after them. Either way, they had never been heard from again. But she was still just a mortal. That thought was all that kept him going when he began to doubt.

Doubt is a nasty sensation to a creature born into Pride. The feeling was a little worse than uncomfortable, but not quite enough to draw pain. Like a dull ache behind his eyes. It was something that he desperately wanted to scratch, until his flesh bled and tore, this pitiful mortal frame was torn apart, and he could return to the great shifting planes of the dreamscape, drinking the mortal souls he reaped here.

The Witch of the Wilds.

Flemeth.

_Asha Bellenar_.

The Mad Queen.

The Laughing God.

Whatever her name, whatever form she took, he was ready for her. Ready and waiting. Prudence, he called it. Cowardice, the doubt claimed as it gnawed at his black heart.

'Master Uldred.'

He glanced up from the cooling corpse of the war hound he was dissecting and looked at the chamber door. One of his acolytes. Useless fool, if he remembered, but loyal.

_Unwillingly so._

'What is it?'

'We performed the scrying ceremony, as instructed' she said, eyes glued to the floor. 'The March has begun. Orlais will sack Gherlen's Halt, and invade Ferelden. Fully a third of the chevaliers and nearly all of the Orlesian templars. They have also been supplemented by templars from both Ostwick and Starkhaven. Kirkwall too.'

'Good. Inform the king; no doubt he will want to fortify Denerim. And send for the Senior Enchanters. We will need to plan a strategy' he ordered, already turned away.

'Dread lord?' she asked, puzzled. 'Why do the-'

'Because the king must return to the capitol, and the cabal* will hold off the templars. Gherlen's Halt is a narrow valley, with enough mages; we can stop them in their tracks, and butcher them all. Now get out of my sight.'

'Yes, terrible one.' The acolyte gave a stiff, jerky bow before leaving, a brief flash of hatred behind her eyes. But then it passed, the control reasserting itself, her stifled rage unspent.

_Delicious_.

He stood up, and wiped his hands of the gore that coated them. These hounds really were fascinating creatures, and his plans for them were nearing fruition.

'Soon, I think. Very soon now.' He turned away from his experiments and towards the door. Men must be spoken to, plans must be written, armies to assemble, lives to ruin.

It was no wonder mortals perished so easily. Always rushing about everywhere, always in a hurry, constantly on edge, never resting properly.

The things he put himself through, the things he would do for power.

-oOo-

Aveline woke up.

Her back was stiff, her skull was throbbing, and her hands were bound.

_Huh_.

Alive, then.

Then she recalled the last few minutes. _Landry, you bastard. You didn't even warn us._

She only had herself to blame. Really.

Her location was no secret. Even though it was midnight and she couldn't see beyond the fire, she could _smell_ Denerim from here.

'You're awake, then' came a gruff voice off to her side. More of a grunt, really. She could feel his scowl burning into her.

Teyrn Loghain dropped down, still in his signature plate armor. She had yet to see him take it off.

No, actually, scratch that, he took the gauntlets off for supper. Once.

'Well? Are you going to tell me what happened?'_ Focus, Aveline!_

'What I can. All I know is that Landry was loyal to Cailan. Blindly loyal. And after that Warden arrived, the Chasind, he's-'

'He isn't Chasind.'

'Huh?'

'He's not a – oh never mind.'

'Anyway' she continued. 'After the Warden arrived, the king has been acting . . . erratically. What with the massacre at the Tower, and the Chantry's exile, I think things are slipping away. I don't know why he wants you gone, but unless he does it'll lead to war. My lord' she added, unable to hold his gaze. Not once had he blinked.

'Then why did you protect me?' he asked, cold blue eyes boring into hers. 'Why risk a civil war when you could just let me die?'

'My father was once a Chevalier' she began, pausing slightly as the Teyrn's lip curled in disgust. 'He lost everything, and spent his last coin to get me into Cailan's service. I won't make my father's mistakes. I won't ruin myself following a lord not worth following. I'll do what's right, or die trying.'

'And the real reason?' he asked, not convinced for a second.

'The king's mad as a hatter, and I hated Landry. Hated him.'

He barked out a laugh. 'Good. I can use that. Cailan plans to murder both me and my daughter, and take that whore Celene as a bride. Ferelden will become a province of Orlais, and all so that fool can strut about calling himself an emperor.'

'Ferelden is in trouble, and you're the only one who can save us. I so swear to serve and protect you, in life or death. If you'll have me, I'm yours.'

'I must be mad. I accept your oath, Ser Aveline.' He took a knife to her bonds and reached into a satchel. 'Give these to the queen. Not her steward, not her handmaiden. The queen only. Be back before dawn. We should've hit Highever yesterday.'

'Yes, my lord' she said, standing quickly. Her traitorous legs threatened to give way, but she mastered her cramped limbs and jumped on the nearest horse.

'Tell her to burn those after reading them' Teyrn Loghain said, turning back to the campfire. 'Dawn, Ser Aveline, or we leave without you.'

-oOo-

The ride was hard, and every inch of her body ached from her captivity. The gate guards tried to shake her down for coin, but her furious expression convinced them to back down. The state of things in the capitol were deplorable. The palace guard at least, did things by the book. Unfortunately, this meant that she wouldn't be allowed access until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest.

It was at this point she realised she was being tested. If she flashed the Teyrn's name, the queen might come, but the king would certainly hear of it. Teyrn Loghain needed more than loyalty right now, he needed capability.

_Think, Aveline!_

'I carry a message to her majesty the queen from the king at Ostagar. This document bears the royal seal' she said, smirking ever so slightly. The guard carried out the pantomime of examining the document, but both of them knew he couldn't read. She was waved through and made to wait in the ante chamber, smelling of the road and standing to attention, eyeing the comfortable chairs with longing.

When she arrived, Queen Anora didn't look tired. She looked as fresh and ready for court as a queen should. Her manners were immaculate, and she expressed all the proper concerns for both Aveline and the army. She noted with sadness the loss of Ser Cauthrien, and asked after her father. When she read the documents, her perfect composure cracked for the briefest of moments, and Aveline saw the woman for the first time.

'Tell my father that I understand the threat completely. Thank you, Ser Aveline. You are dismissed.'

'Majesty' she said, bowing and turning to leave. 'You'll want to burn those' she added, pointing to the three letters.

'I know how to play the game of thrones, ser knight. I have been playing since I was fifteen. Tell my father that by the time Cailan and Eamon return, I will be ready.'

Aveline could see that she was.

-oOo-

'Those seals we're supposed to be looking for? Didn't that foul little dwarf already give them to you?' Morrigan asked, grimacing at their surroundings.

The deep roads made Orzammar feel like luxury. Cold, dark and empty. Completely devoid of life. No greenery, no birdsong, just endless miles of freezing tunnels that stretched on for infinity. And all the while, the dull throbbing in his mind, indicating the darkspawn nearby. Patches of blighted taint were strung up over the walls and floor.

He dug around through the satchel. Two velum envelopes were swiftly turned up, one bearing the mark of house Dace.

'Aw, fuck.'

'Imbecile! We could've handed those over and saved ourselves this gods-forsaken trip!' she screeched, slapping at him. He didn't bother dodging, but rolled slightly with the blows, so as not to break her hand.

The deep roads had been hard on her. She was a creature of the forest, as was he. Endless tons of stone overhead set them both on edge. And after three days in Orzammar and two in the deep, they were both at breaking point.

She swung again, and he caught her wrist. 'No more drink. I swear' he said, attempting a grin. The scar warped his smile and left him scowling instead. 'We'll find him; the thaig is only three hours away now. We'll find Dace, drag him back to Orzammar, get the army and leave. We won't come back.'

'This would not have happened if you had not drunk half the tavern' she snapped, pulling away.

'I'm sorry' he said. He truly meant it as well.

She snorted. 'Your promises might as well mean nothing. Sleep in your own damn tent tonight.'

He had nothing to say to that, and so they walked on, towards the thaig.

-oOo-

Aeducan thaig was a wreck. A shattered shell of former glory, given over to corruption and darkspawn filth. They vented their frustration upon the spawn, mercilessly cutting down all they came across. Time and time again they fought their way through groups of genlocks, Nordja and the Kossith driving them back with huge sweeps of their swords, while Morrigan slaughtered them in droves with her ice magic. They drove them back through tunnels, emerging into a large cavern supported by huge stone pillars, and crumbling walls. The place had once been a market of sorts, he guessed, by the multiple roads converging into one place.

Unfortunately, the racket the dying genlocks were making drew in more darkspawn from the tunnels, and the three of them were soon surrounded. Larger, fiercer hurlocks forced their way through the crowd.

Morrigan glanced at him. 'Get behind me' she snapped, fear dancing through her golden eyes. Nordja didn't need telling twice. As she cast her spell, the air, already cold, swiftly turned freezing. A blizzard sprang from nowhere, freezing the warband solid. The darkspawn were too stupid to move, and as one, they frosted up and died. Those on the outer fringes of the spell were only slowed down, and Nordja and the Kossith strode through them, swinging and smashing them apart. Over twenty of the rotten beasts killed with one spell. Such was the power of unchained magic. He found himself shivering. For fear or the cold, he could not say.

'Over here' the Qunari called out. He held up a linen sack, stained red. Morrigan took the sack, gave a disapproving sniff and dropped it back on the floor.

'Dead body, no distinguishing marks. It has been here for a while, but it bleeds still. Curious, is it not?' she asked, pulling out the fresh torso.

'Errgh. Put it down. It'll stain your robes' he said, trying not to gag. It was certainly fragrant. Morrigan huffed and dropped the sack against a pillar. They left it with the slowly melting darkspawn corpses.

-oOo-

Lord Dace was under siege, when they found him. Beset on all sides by the hideous worm-headed monsters known as deepstalkers. Like wingless eagles, with talons almost three inches long on the larger ones.

The most dangerous thing about a deepstalker isn't the teeth; they're sharp enough, but too awkwardly positioned to do any serious damage. The poison they spit can be nasty, especially if it finds its way into the blood, but it's rarely fatal. The claws and talons do the most damage, sharp enough to slice through a young bronto's hide, or ruin the finish on fancy dwarven armor, and puncture lungs and slice throats if they can find them. The skin looked slimy, but was smooth, like that of a snake. It was the flesh that gave most dwarves pause. The muscles were iron hard, and almost rubbery. Swords will bounce off a deepstalker, leaving a nasty welt and generally pissing it off. That's why most dwarves use axes, theres more weight behind the swing. But the absolute most dangerous thing about the deepstalkers was that, by nature, it was a pack animal.

Around sixty of the buggers swamped the dwarf outfit, claws scrabbling against the ornate red steel harness's they all wore. The heavy plate had few gaps, but the tezpadam, as the dwarves called them, managed to find them. The company were fighting in a rough horseshoe formation, evidently the line had broken and the stalkers had swarmed in. They fought bravely, but they were too outnumbered, and steadily falling.

Morrigan angled herself into position, freezing a large swath of the predators. The dwarves let loose a cheer and sent vicious swings at their helpless enemy. Both the wardens waded amongst the icicles, slamming their heavy blades onto the suddenly brittle bodies, and kicking them apart when they could.

Ice magic had many interesting applications. Who would have thought?

With the tide turned, the remainder of the pack turned and fled. The dwarves gave a cheer and ran them down, leaving none to return to the cold burrows and waiting eggs.

'An entire nest destroyed! And we're all still breathing. My thanks, Wardens. Let me know if there's anything I can do to repay the favour.'

'Harrowmont wants you back. Apparently, Bhelen's men had this forged' Nordja said, handing the deshyr the slip.

'Useless, the pair of them' the dwarf sighed. 'It's a shame about Duran. Endrin was a fool to cast him away. We all were.'

'Duran was the middle son, right?' he asked, forcing his brain to muddle through the complicated Orzammar politics.

'Aye. A born warrior, a natural leader and cast out for his brother's crime. That's why we're down here, actually. Bhelen is a snake, and Harrowmont's old and weak. I wouldn't want either as king. But it's been four months. If he isn't dead, we figured he'd be at the thaig of his ancestors. Then the damn tezpadam ambushed us, and we resigned ourselves to the stone. At the least, we'll return the shield of Aeducan to its resting place. King Endrin bade me this task last I saw him, merely three days before he passed. Bhelen will never get his hands on it.'

Four months. Four months ago, his father still breathed. His life had still been his own. It seemed like so long ago now. Like it happened to a different person. A boy.

Not that he counted himself among the very mature now. Maturity and responsibility are different things after all.

Dace was now showing him a large shield, ancient and worn, with the sigil of house Aeducan burnished in gold atop darkened steel. A bit too archaic to be wielded in battle anymore. The wood had rotted, the steel showed signs of rust, and the leather had seen better days.

'By the stone' called out a voice from behind them. It was thin, and raspy, and the owner of the voice looked no better. He must've been the frailest dwarf Nordja had ever laid eyes upon, cheeks sunken, eyes gaunt, hair wild and loose fitting scavenged armor hanging off his lank frame. His feet were bare and blackened, his beard unkempt. 'I never thought I would see you again, friend.'

Dace looked both heartbroken and overjoyed. 'My prince' he whispered.

Duran Aeducan was still alive.

-oOo-

If the march to Denerim had been hard, the one to Highever was nothing short of brutal. Having gone out of their way to warn the queen, hey were now behind on schedule, and any delay would no doubt reach the ear of the king, his brother.

Alistair decided he didn't like horses any more. Growing up in the Redcliff stables had made him rather attached to the animals, but after a solid week of his nether regions slamming down into the saddle again and again as they galloped over Ferelden left him in a very bad mood.

Half of the poor beasts had perished. If Landry and the royal knights had not turned on them, they would have been screwed. Thankfully, the betrayal left them with enough horses to give them enough replacements when theirs collapsed beneath them and couldn't rise. Loghain ordered the harness and saddle removed and left the poor beasts to die alone, or recover and wander freely.

He had no idea how Garret's dog, Rabbit, managed to keep pace. Every day he would run with the horses and keep the pace. Every night he would inhale the meal at camp and sleep almost instantly, ready to run again in the morning. Alistair wanted a dog like that.

The wardens and the warden recruits were holding up well enough. When they arrived, they would finally undergo their Joining, the chalice and potion tucked deep within his saddlebags. He would've done it already, but they slept only five hours a night, and Loghain and the knight were always too close for his comfort.

Aveline was a good woman, he thought, if a bit strict. Since Denerim, she had been acting as the Teyrn's right hand, enforcing his commands and seeing to his needs before her own. Having met the late Ser Cauthrien on several occasions, it was a tad morbid watching her replacement learn the ropes, but Loghain bore it without comment, and so did he.

Jory was coming out of his shell more and more the closer they got to Highever. He was excited to see his wife once more, and his child had been due last month, so he had that to look forward to as well. He wasn't sure how he felt about that, wardens having family outside the order. The woman would have a lonely life, with her husband bound by duty.

The Hawke brothers were usually at odds, and he was swiftly losing patience with Carver. The young warrior complained constantly about his brother's presence in the group, and Garret, always with a clever remark certainly didn't help matters.

Sometimes he felt like a child-minder.

Bethany was a nice girl, which surprised him. Morrigan had lived up to the hype about apostates, but he could find no faults with her. She was a rare breed, a genuinely nice person. At seventeen, he felt she was too young for the order. Such a life would crush her, and leave her a bitter husk.

If the Joining didn't kill her first.

Her twin had survived it however, which gave him hope. Maybe if she survived, he would offer her the rose he had picked in Lothering.

Maybe.

Leliana was having the worst of it. When they met, in Dane's refuge, she had seemed like a cheerful, caring person, but her arguments with the commander had soured her and left her bitter towards the wardens. She was also incredibly pious, which left a bitter taste in his mouth, after his time in the Chantry. He agreed with her that Cailan had gone too far, but they disagreed on Nordja's slaughter of the templars at Kinloch Hold. Those child-murderers had gotten exactly what they deserved.

When they left Ostagar, she had flirted outrageously with him on the road, which had made him uncomfortable (and secretly delighted, he must admit, but only to himself when he was alone in his tent) and after Morrigan's message, she had stopped talking to him, as if it were his fault.

It wasn't as if he'd been staring at her, well, _those_.

Okay, maybe he had.

The Teyrn's barbed comments about Orlesians and their companion's digs about the catfight had made her quite unpleasant company.

Jory suddenly let out a whoop, and urged his horse on faster. Behind the treeline, Highever was now in the distance.

-oOo-

'My prince' Lord Dace whispered, tears in his eyes. 'Praise the ancestors, you're alive!'

Nordja had to dodge out of the way as a stampede of dwarves rushed past, eager to embrace their lost hero.

Though he was happy to be found, the prince was eyeing the dead deepstalkers with a ravenous glint. Nordja handed him a pouch of rations as he shook his hand, and the starving dwarf thanked him kindly. After, every dwarf in the company fell over themselves trying to give him theirs, until he had to raise a shaky hand, begging for air.

'Orzammar has descended into chaos since your departure, my prince' Dace said, laying a thick hand on his shoulder. 'You must return, and claim the throne. We _need_ you, sire.'

'The Assembly banished me, old friend. Even with your support, even with Harrowmont's, I could not claim my birth right. Bhelen has won. I thank you for your food, it makes a refreshing change from raw nug and deepstalker, but I cannot return. That life is over.'

Dace was thoughtful, for a moment. 'If we had the support of a Paragon, and Harrowmont joined to your cause, perhaps we could overturn that decree. Both the contenders are preparing to send out mercenaries to find Branka. If we get there first . . .'

Duran laughed. 'Who would be mad enough to seek her out? She was difficult on her good days and a nightmare on the rest. Besides, she's been gone nearly two years now. Even with her entire house, they won't find her, just a corpse. I survived by staying so close to Orzammar, she went in deeper. The darkspawn will have killed her.'

'But there is a chance!' Dace cried passionately. 'Come back to Orzammar, my prince. I'll find someone to go, even if it beggars my house. We will find a way.'

'I'll do it' Nordja heard someone say. He realized it was him. 'Give me your armies to defeat the Blight, and I'll find your Paragon.'

Morrigan groaned, albeit quietly. The Kossith grunted, and returned his attention to sharpening Asala.

'I'll bet this shield that Harrowmont is trying to short-change you with that. His heart is in the right place, but he hasn't seen what Orzammar is. A dying city. Bhelen and I both wanted to change that. You get me the paragon, warden, and I'll give you eight legions out of the twelve.'

'Harrowmont offered me fifteen companies. Twenty companies in a legion, right?' he asked, to the nodding dwarf. 'We have a deal, prince Duran.'

-oOo-

Highever was a burned out shell of what it had been. The once beautiful town was blackened by smoke, with collapsed roofs and bodies littering the streets.

Loghain took it all in stoically. Life is hard, you will die. Get over it. He had raised Anora on those words, words he took to heart in times like this. They kept him standing, even as his heart silently broke at the sight of the meaningless carnage. Not since the occupation had a Ferelden town suffered this badly. His fist tightened around his hilt.

Behind, he could hear the knight with the forgettable features wailing. Jorg, or Jorgy, he thought it might be. It was a hard thing to witness, the burnt corpse of a woman and her babe at the breast. That it was Jorgy's wife and child, burned so utterly he could not even tell the gender, was an unforgivable crime. Whatever Howe's grievance with the Couslands, even had they been traitors, this was a step too far.

Ahead, Highever castle beckoned.

-oOo-

The portcullis slammed down with an almighty crash behind them, trapping them inside the keep.

'AMBUSH!' he roared, raising his shield as a clatter of arrows rained down amongst them. The wardens fell into position, the mages and the archer guarded by the bastard as he, Aveline and Jorgy made for the stairs. Jorgy reached them first, swinging the monstrous sword he carried in great sweeping arcs, hacking Howe's men apart in a fury. Aveline left his side to guard the berserk warden, sensible of her, he thought. And comforting to know that she trusted him to hold his own.

It had been too long since he had fought an enemy he could hate. The darkspawn were a menace, but too faceless an enemy and mindless an opponent to earn his wrath. Landry's traitor knights had all fallen before he realised the threat, but these men, these butchers, these were men he could hate.

The first man swung an axe at his shield, the idiot focused on his own swing and not on Loghain. He taught him the error of his ways by shearing through the leather armor and heard the sound of steel grating upon bone. Done, he moved on to the next, who ran at him, sword raised overhead.

Loghain ducked, bringing his shield overhead and stabbing forwards in one fluid motion. The man died with a gurgle, but he was already gone. His next opponent was much better, an elf with twin swords, expensive leather armor and the markings of a crow.

The elf was as swift as a hawk in flight. With almost supernatural agility he stopped his charge along the ramparts and gave way slightly in the face of Loghain's rush. He wasn't retreating however, merely opening the distance between them to bring his weapons to bear on the general. Loghain lashed out viciously at him, aiming savage blows at his head and neck, but the elf blocked one blow with a ringing stroke of his sword and ducked the other, then struck like a viper at one of the articulated lames in his breastplate. At the last second Loghain twisted his whole body, causing the assassins sword to glance along his armor instead of digging in and sinking into his stomach.

There was a glint of silver to his right, followed by the sharp scratch of what felt like a red-hot claw just above his temple. His sudden motion had saved his life from more than one blow as the assassins other blade had been aiming for his forehead.

_Maker's breath, he's fast!_ He thought. _Whatever else his faults may be, Howe knows how to choose his men._ He jabbed at his eyes – and then Aveline was beside him, her sword flickering like lightning. No longer forced to deal with him alone, the Teyrn grinned savagely and bent himself to the destruction of the crow.

The narrow parapet rang with the sounds of clashing blades. The blonde warrior was a master with his blades, blocking their every attack with fluid speed and power. Despite Loghain's slight advantage of being taller and raining blows down upon his enemy's head, neck and shoulders, the crow had a countermove for his every tactic. _Well,_ he thought, as his father had been fond of saying when teaching him swordplay_, when they're better at the game than you are, change the rules._

Aveline let out a roar and swung to the side of the assassins head. He easily blocked the blow, and Loghain kicked him hard in the crotch. The elf went down with a high-pitched squeal.

He raised his sword to cut the elf in half, and caught his gaze. There was pain in those eyes, and . . . relief? His hesitation cost him, as a white hot pain flared up in the back of his skull, and he knew no more.

-oOo-

Pain.

Blood.

Shackles.

Hot.

Red.

Searing.

Burn.

The torture chamber. Rarely used by the Couslands, but Howe had refurbished it and painted it red. Corpses strung from the four walls, withered and starting to decay.

Before him stood Howe. Not the most impressive of figures but the sheer malice of his stare compensated for his shorter stature.

'Arl Howe. You've got some nerve' he spat out.

'You jumped up peasant. I should've done this a long time ago' he sneered. 'And it's Teyrn Howe these days.'

'If you think Cailan will stand for this' he began, but the lie must've shown through, for Howe burst into laughter.

'Of course he will. Cailan is easily lead, and Eamon has wanted you dead for so very long.'

He spat a wad of blood onto the straw. 'Anora will-'

'Your bitch of a daughter won't be the queen much longer, Loghain. The king himself asked me to arrange it in his last letter. The one where he told me to capture you if the knights had failed to kill you already.'

Loghain was above begging, and Howe was beyond reason, so he simply replied 'Fuck you.'

'Such language, Loghain, tsk tsk. But you can't be held to the same standards, I suppose. You are just a farmer's son at the end of the day.' He delivered a brutal backhand to his face. Loghain winced, before resuming his glaring at the man.

'Traveling in the company of mages as well. Maric should've gone all the way and dressed you in furs. How often did he climb into your bed? Rowan gave him Cailan, but she couldn't compete with you, could she? What poison did you use, Loghain? Didn't want to share him anymore, did you?'

Loghain answered the mad delusions with a look of pure disgust. 'I heard the Cousland boy took the Vigil' he said, and Howe's face crumpled into unchecked rage. Loghain couldn't help it. He started to laugh.

Howe went chalk-white with fury. 'Bring them' he ordered.

Guards marched in, dragging the three Hawke siblings. He had promised Leandra he'd keep them safe. He'd promised.

The oldest, Garret, was tied to a post and lashed. After a while, the grunts gave way to screams. Bethany sobbed in the corner, while both he and the brother watched stony faced.

'Enough. This one makes good sport' said Howe, gripping Garrets chin and forcing him to look into his eyes. 'Make him watch.'

Carver and Bethany were dragged to similar posts while a guard forced Garrets head into position. In his weakened state, Loghain saw his mother, spread on the table, as the Orlesians ravaged her again and again.

'No' he said, softly, tears in his eyes.

Howe leaned in close, and he would've traded all of Ferelden in that moment just to slip the manacles, reach through the bars and throttle the bastard.

'No?' Howe asked, drawing a wicked looking dagger. 'A merciful death? Shall I be merciful?'

He couldn't answer. This was a level of sadism he had never seen before.

'Well Loghain. It seems you have a choice. The girl, or the boy' he said, moving the dagger to each of their throats in turn. 'Choose.'

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_**What the hell is coming next?**_

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_***Nobs – Casteless slang for nobles, non-cannon but I think it fits in quite well.**_

_***With Irving dead, Uldred (or Malus, Uldred was consumed a while back) has taken control, and renamed the Circle into the Cabal. A circle gives the idea of equality, a call-back to Arthur and his knights. A cabal is a straight line to the top, with Malus in total control. Plus it sounds a bit darker and edgier than circle. Especially as circles don't have edges to begin with.**_

_**As to the Warden compound in Orzammar, it doesn't exist. Not one mention in cannon or the game, if wardens do make a visit then I'd imagine that the king puts them up. With no king, Nordja and co. are sleeping rough or falling asleep in the tavern. Harrowmont certainly wouldn't put up surfacers in his estate. **_

_**Harrowmont also wouldn't have left Bhelen to his scheming, and I'm sure he would've sent someone to track down Dace once he knew what the regicide was planning. Which is why Nordja has to do both tasks.**_

_**And yes, the dwarf noble survived his exile and managed to find his way back to where the shield of Aeducan was recovered. The location is defendable, and more or less a secret. Perfect hideaway until something better comes along. Dace, I figured, was there in game hoping to find a sign of him/her, rather than put up with either candidate, both of whom leave much to be desired.**_

_**Deepstalkers are evil. I hate them. Nasty, nasty things. Almost as evil as Howe. Who am I kidding, he's the most depraved character ever. We all hate Howe. So I gave him a chance to shine at the end there. **_

_**READERS, YOU CAN NOW INFLUENCE THE STORY!**_

_**Decide who lives, who dies. Bethany or Carver, one will not survive the next chapter. To vote for your favourite, let me know in a review. Hahaha, you must review! Mwahahahah!**_


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